A Bandit's Tale
by Strader
Summary: My name ain't important. It's my job that matters. Brigand, bandit, cutthroat, outlaw - call me what you will. I rove and reave this Weald as I like, and you got a problem with that you can tell it to the sixteen-pounder behind me. This is my story. Rated T for violence and extremely strong language. Story is 100% complete - enjoy!
1. The Mud

Chapter 1: The Mud

I'm sweating like a pig.

The Weald has two temperatures: hot as hell, and cold as death – and it always seems to be whichever one you ain't ready for. Right now, it's a humid, swampy, stinking jungle. Probably it'll freeze over in a couple of hours, once we're good and sweaty, so we'll freeze too.

Don't help we're hauling a cannon through a swamp, either.

"Fuck," grunts Florent, stopping for a moment to wipe his brow.

"Fuck," I agree.

"Don't stop!" yells Rodin, and we keep at it.

It's all their fault, those bastards up in town. We used to have three cannons. The old gun was an eight-pounder – just right for a job like this. Not so hard to carry, not so difficult to pull from the mud, and because the shots were only eight pounds each, we could carry a lot more with us. Sure, it wasn't as powerful as the other two, but that cannon was a real beauty.

Was. The "adventurers" in town, they show up four months ago and smash it to scrap. I saw the wreck and I wanted to cry. And then, on top of that, they spike the twelve-pounder, too, just a couple of weeks ago. So we're stuck with the biggest, heaviest one, which is why the gun behind me right now, breaking my spine, is a sixteen-pounder. Powerful, deadly, and absolutely impossible to haul around. Never mind how difficult it is to carry all the powder, and cannonballs that weigh sixteen pounds apiece. There's ten of us here, and it's still taken us half a day to get through this muck.

"I'm gonna die," I wheeze. "We need a horse."

"For the meat?" asks Florent.

"To pull the cannon, idiot," I snap. But he winks at me, and I realize he was joking.

I look behind me for Guy, who's walking slowly along behind the gun. Most of us like to joke Guy's half-Giant, but I'm not so sure that ain't the case. He's massive – the size of two men, at least. Right now, he's got his hands full carrying a box with the cannonballs, and the powder barrel strapped to his back. I take a second to spit and curse again our rotten luck. Old eight-pounder, _we_ could carry the balls, and _he_ could help lug the damn thing around. Good luck carrying balls sixteen pound each 'less you're strong as an ox.

The cannon stops moving, and we all realize the wheels have sunk in the mud under its weight. Most of us just start swearing 'cause we can't think what else to do, but Rodin keeps his head.

"Guy! Put the damn balls down somewhere safe, and help us get this thing outta the mud," Rodin yells.

"What, so they sink in the mud too?" Guy says.

"Just do it," we all holler back.

So while we keep hauling on the ropes, trying to keep the thing from slipping further into the swamp, Guy trudges on ahead to find a dry spot he can put the balls down on. It's an hours-long couple minutes of pulling, gasping, and straining until he finally comes back, stands behind the cannon, and starts pushing. Even with his help, it's another minute before the cannon pulls free of the mud with a wet _pop_ , and then we all have to pull some more 'till the cannon's far enough from the swamp it won't slide back in. Then we pause for a breather while Guy goes back to get the cannonballs.

He comes back with exactly two, both of which are covered in filth.

"Box sank in the mud. I managed to fish these two out."

"Fuck!" says Rodin.

"Fuck!" says Florent.

"Fuck," I contribute. Don't wanna be left out.


	2. The Crew

Chapter 2: The Crew

Career as a bandit, you're guaranteed three things.

One is you're gonna see some shit. And it's gonna be awful.

Two is you're gonna do some shit. And it's gonna be worse.

Three is you're gonna meet some interesting people. Key word is "some". Not everyone's interesting. Lotta people in my crew, but only a couple are interesting enough to be worth a mention at the moment.

There's Florent. Florent's got bad teeth – all crooked, and several decayed. One or two we've had to pull out. He's good with gallows humour, which is always in demand. He can keep his head decently. He's not my best friend, because you don't have real friends in this line of work, but he's all right to be around.

There's Guy. Mentioned him already: big bear of a man, strong as an ox. Likes to use a scourge with razors tied into it; real bloodletter in a fight. Don't talk much, but he's not the silent type either: he says what he needs to say then shuts up. I like him too.

There's Rodin. Rodin's favourite colour is blue, and that's the colour he wears. Rodin's good at keeping his head in a fight, and we all look up to him as a boss. Rodin's also a real bastard, and I hate his guts. He's none too fond of me neither. But you don't have to like one another to work together. He knows I'm good in a fight. I know he's a good planner. So we mostly let one another alone.

There's also me, but you don't give a shit about that.


	3. The Plan

Chapter 3: The Plan

Once we're through the mud, things are a lot easier, but it's still only an hour and a half before dusk by the time we finally meet the others. Clairwil's the boss of this crew, and when we find him, he's cleaning his rifle, and doesn't bother to get up and help.

"You took your time," is all he says.

"You try dragging this thing through a swamp," says I. Rodin grunts in agreement, and that's that. We wheel the cannon into place, drink a bit of water, then gather round and go over the plan.

We need the cannon because there's a carriage due to come up here around sunset, which isn't too long from now. The carriages ferry supplies up to the hamlet – stuff like food, bandages, medicine. More importantly, though, they sometimes carry magical trinkets for a shop someone set up in the hamlet, and Rodin's "inside man" way south in the next town – whoever he is – told us this one's got something real nice, though he didn't specify what it was.

The problem is that they've started armouring the carriages these days. Maybe we knocked too many over, and they got wise. Not just that, but past year and a half or so they've started travelling with a whole crew of fortune-seekers hopin' to find jobs up at the hamlet – and those bastards are always spoiling for a fight. With Clairwil's boys, there's twenty of us now (well, seventeen, since the matchman and both loaders have to stay with the gun), so we can take 'em, but there's still the carriage to consider.

That's where the cannon comes in. A good cannonball will kill the horses and knock over the carriage, then you can hit 'em with grapeshot a few times before we go in to finish off any survivors. Easy as pie.

We got two issues, now.

First is that this cannon's too damn big for the job. A sixteen-pounder's deadly on a battlefield, and it's great for putting holes in buildings, but a direct hit from the heavy shot will punch right through the carriage and wreck all the valuables inside. I mean, it'd also punch through all the bastards inside and make a lovely gory mess, but there's no profit in that.

Second is that since we lost most of our ammunition in the swamp, we only have two solid shots. This means that our aim has to be bang-on, because if we miss both shots, that's it: the carriage gets away, and we're left with squat. It also means that because we lost all our grapeshot, we'll have at most one piece of solid shot to soften them up, and that assumes we don't miss the carriage first time. That means it'll be a much tougher fight.

Our plan for the first problem is to aim low, so the shot bounces off the ground a few times before it hits the horses. Cannonball uses up some of its energy that way, so it'll crush the horses and maybe the driver without obliterating the carriage. The trick is to angle it so it bounces off the ground without plowing right into the dirt and stopping, or bouncing so high it overshoots the carriage, but I assume the crew know what they're doing.

Second problem can't be helped: we'll just have to make sure we hit them. Once we stop the carriage, we'll fire our second round if we've still got it. Then Clairwil and the fusiliers will hang back and lay down some covering fire while everyone else charges in, with Guy in the van 'cause he's the toughest we've got.

"Right," says Rodin at last. "This is as good as it gets."

"Yeah," I nod. "Let's do this."


	4. The Raid

Chapter 4: The Raid

Half an hour later, the carriage shows up on the horizon.

The cannon's on a hillock above a bend in the road, concealed in the trees as best we could, with a clean enfilade right down the road. We're crouched in the bushes below the gun – safest bet so a missed shot doesn't waste us – with the carriage bearing down on us.

"They better not fucking miss," I mutter.

"They can miss. Just not twice," says Florent.

"Shut up," hisses Rodin.

Carriage comes on. Closer. Closer…

"Fire one!" yells Rodin. I quickly stick my fingers in my ears.

 _BOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!_

The shot flies out over our heads. It scrapes the ground, bounces once or twice, then caromes up and plows right into the horses. There's a hideous shriek and a crunch of wood and bone giving way as they die, and then the carriage's forward momentum flips it clean around to land on its roof, crushing the driver beneath it to boot.

It's a perfect shot, and we all cheer. The sight of all the gore and wreckage is beautiful: completely worth hauling the damn cannon through the swamp.

The cheers eventually die down, and we wait for any survivors to emerge. Sure enough, out they crawl, bruised and blooded. We take stock.

A man in plate armour, with a cross blazoned on his surcoat. He'll be a problem. Or she – I suppose it could be a woman under there.

A tall woman with war paint on her face, a spray of red hair, and what looks like a big fucking axe, maybe a glaive. She'll be a problem too.

A man in a turban and what looks like some kind of robe. He doesn't look like a problem, but you never know.

Another man, bearded, who's pulling a big ugly dog out of the wreck. I swear under my breath. I hate dogs, except when served with a side of potatoes. And even if I didn't, that thing'll be a pain in the ass to keep track of. Another problem.

Lastly a shorter woman, blonde, in a blue overcoat, lugging what looks like a…mining pick? If that's all she's got, she's gonna _have_ a problem.

"Bagsies on Blondie," says Florent with a grin. I grin back, but privately I think he's acting like a fool. This is a proper fight coming up, not some cowering villagers we can walk over. Not a good time to try and get in a bit of rape.

"Fire two!" yells Rodin. I put my fingers in my ears again just in time.

 _BOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!_

The second cannonball sails down and hits the guy in armour square in the chest. He's instantly turned into paste and a bunch of scrap metal, and the cannonball goes bouncing off down the road. We let out another, bigger cheer. One less problem.

"Charge!" roars Rodin, and we surge forward.


	5. The Fight

Chapter 5: The Fight

We come in screaming like demons. Clairwil and his fusiliers lay down a withering barrage, but the survivors pull back behind the wreck of the carriage so they can't get a bead on 'em. As we run up to the carriage, we split into two groups – one left, one right. I go right, and stay in the middle.

It saves my life. As we round the corner, we find the tall woman, and she screams right back.

" _Kreeeee-YAWP."_

Even from here, her voice is like a fist in the face. The two guys in front are even worse off – they stagger back, stunned, and she hacks one down with her glaive. I gotta admit I'm impressed.

The man in the turban comes into view, and raises what looks like a skull. There's a sudden red glow above me. I don't look up, but immediately dive right, narrowly avoiding a tentacle of energy that drops from outta nowhere and coils where my head used to be. Man behind me isn't as lucky – another tentacle catches him in the face, and he reels back clutching at a broken nose.

"They got a fucking magician here!" I yell to the others, and come in from the side.

Things get real hectic, real quick. Guy comes in with the boys who went left before and lays about him with the scourge, raking the glaive-woman red across the back. She turns to fight him. Dog's barking, and in the corner of my eye I see it sink its teeth into someone's ankle. I close in on the magician, who drops the skull and pulls a curved knife as he sees me coming.

We take a moment to size one another up. He's got one knife, in his right hand. I got two.

"Fight me, savage!" he yells at me. I say nothin', just grin, to piss him off so he gets sloppy. Sure enough, in he comes, slashing in from my right. I step backward, feint left, and lunge forward with my right, but he sees it and dodges back and to his right. I turn to face him again.

Rule one of knife fighting – keep your eyes on the knife, not on who's holding it. Sure enough, he tries to pull a fast one – he switches hands on me. He drops the knife into his left hand quick as you like and thrusts with the empty right hand to try an' make me dodge left, while slicing upward with the knife held in his left hand. I don't fall for it – I use the knife in my right hand to parry his attack, and use the one in my left to stab him in the guts.

"Ghhhk," he says.

"Nice try," I grin, pull my knife from his guts, and run it across his neck. I step to the side as I do it so I don't get as much blood on me.

The whole fight, start to finish, was about six seconds long. Business like this, you're either quick or you're dead.

As the magician falls, I take a moment to stomp on the skull he was using for his spells and crush it to bits – no sense leavin' it lying around. Then I turn to see what else is happening.

It's bad. The two guys who were ahead of me are dead – the woman with the glaive cut one open from chin to cock, and the other is oozing blood from a hole in the head I guess came from Blondie's pickaxe. I see another two wounded next to Guy, who's got his hands full trying to keep the dog off them. The guy with the busted nose and Rodin are both struggling with glaive-woman, who's drenched in blood, screaming like a banshee, and seems to be holding them both off. Blondie's throwing knives – thankfully, not in my direction. The dog's master is laying about him with a club. Over it all, there's the dog barking and snarling, and a whole lotta yelling.

"Get it off me!"

"Hit her from the side!"

"YAAAAAAAAH!"

"That damn thing's rabid!"

"I'll gut you, bitch!"

"Run for it!"

"Coward!"

"Would someone _kill_ that _fucking_ dog?!"

Guy must have heard that last one, because when the dog comes by him next, he manages to snatch it by the collar. He picks the thing up, still snarling, and slams it as hard as he can against the side of the carriage. It whines and squeals real loud, so he slams it into the side again and it finally shuts up. Hopefully there's still some meat on it.

I'm running toward Blondie, hoping to get her from behind, when it hits me.

" _Kreeeee-YAWP."_

It's like being slugged in the guts and kicked in the crotch at the same time. Worse. White explodes in front of my eyes, and I sit down with a thump. For a second there, I'm sure I've had it. I close my eyes and wait for the axe to fall.

It doesn't. When I realize I'm still alive, I shake my head to try and get my wits together, and manage to clear it enough to focus on what's happening again.

Blondie, the glaive-woman, and the man who owned the dog Guy killed seem to have realized it's hopeless, because they're legging it across the road, trying to get to the woods. Probably that's why I ain't dead: glaiver yawped at me to keep me off Blondie so they could run. A loud blast of gunfire rings out – Clairwil's boys opening fire – and the man twists and falls in the dirt. But the other two make it.

"After them!" roars a voice I recognize as Rodin's. I take a second to shake off the last of the dizziness and get to my feet, then join the others as we chase the two survivors into the Weald. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice someone stop to put a knife in the fallen man's back, and grin. Serves him right for bringing the dog.


	6. The Hellion

Chapter 6: The Hellion

Overconfidence and bloodlust make us sloppy. We charge pell-mell into the Weald, and before we've realized what we're doing we've let the darkness and confusion split us up into a bunch of small groups rather than one big one. I lose track of Guy and Florent, and pretty soon it's just me and one other guy wondering where the hell everyone else is.

"Think we should turn back?" I ask. "We ain't finding 'em again in this mess."

"Yeah," says the other guy – ugly son of a bitch by the name of Jean. "This is hopeless."

"Hopeless for you!" comes a voice I don't recognize.

We draw steel and turn to see the glaive-woman running at us out of the gloom. She swings at Jean, who barely ducks in time. He darts back to me, and the three of us size one another up.

The glaive-woman's screaming is the real threat – I know firsthand it's like being slugged – but if we make sure not to stay too close to one another she won't be able to knock us both for a loop at once. And if one of us gets behind her, we can probably win this. I wink at Jean, who starts circling around her to the left. I go right.

"You're a real fuckin' hellion, woman," I taunt, trying to goad her into charging too soon. "I'm impressed."

"Come closer," she calls back, "and I'll show you just how much of a hellion I can be."

"You'd like that, hey?" Jean cuts in with a harsh laugh. "Having the both of us _real_ close."

"Forget him," says I. "Killer like you, you'd make a great bandit. I'm sure the others'd let you into the crew, no questions asked. Just put the axe down and we can talk it over."

"You really think I'm that stupid?" she asks.

I'm actually thinking I only need to keep her talking for a few more seconds when Jean suddenly rushes her – maybe he thought he saw an opening. But he's still too early, and she sees him coming. Idiot! She whirls and hacks him a blow that opens up his stomach, then takes his head off on the back-stroke. As he crumples to the dirt, she turns back to me.

"He didn't last long," she says with a sneer. "Will you?"

Career as a bandit, you see some shit. See enough of it, you know when to cut your losses and run. I say nothing, but turn and flee into the bushes.

"Coward!" I hear her roar after me, but I don't take the bait.

For another few minutes, maybe longer, I blunder through the Weald. As soon as I'm sure I'm away from the Hellion, I slow down and move as quietly as I can. I don't wanna get caught alone out here, especially without a torch. After a couple of minutes, I hear yelling ahead of me, and make my way over.

After about another half minute, I emerge into a clearing. I can make out four other people, all lit up by a still-guttering torch that's fallen to the ground.

One of them is Blondie – probably she's the one dropped the torch. Another is one of our boys, who's twisted one of her arms behind her back, and got his other arm round her neck. The third is Florent – he's lost his hood in the fighting, and I can recognize his mug from here. He's busy trying to get his pants off, I assume so him and his friend can have a bit of fun before they cut her throat and make their way back to the carriage. He'd probably get away with it too, except the fourth person is the Hellion, eyes blazing hate as she sneaks up behind him out of the darkness. She must have heard the noise too.

"Hey, Blondie," Florent taunts, struggling with the buckle. "Have you ever been fucked befo-"

"Florent," I yell, "Behind you!"

Florent looks up at me, startled, before looking behind him like I wanted. By that time, it's too late.

"KREEE-YAAAAAH!"

The Hellion slashes sideways with the glaive and catches Florent right in the face. His skull splits open like a piece of fruit. The guy holding Blondie cries out in horror, and the moment of distraction is enough for her to slip out of his grasp. In one fluid motion, she pulls a hidden knife from her coat and pushes it up under his chin.

"Shit," I whisper to myself.

They turn to face me, and I realize I'm alone, two on one. The Hellion's face, spattered with Florent's blood and lit from below by the fallen torch, is like something outta my worst dreams – eyes hidden in darkness, only a disembodied nose and mouth stained red, and twisted to a leer of contempt. She must've recognized me.

"Back for another lesson?" she taunts.

I may have liked Florent well enough, but he got himself killed and that's his lookout. I'm not getting dead trying to avenge him. So I just snarl at her, and turn and run again. This time, I don't stop for anything.

Five or ten minutes later, I manage to find my way back to the road. Rodin, Clairwil, and a couple of the others are picking through the wreckage of the carriage. They look pissed off.

"You find them?" asks Clairwil.

"We got separated. Jean, Florent, and at least one other guy are all dead. I found them in a clearing," I lie. "They must have got the drop on them while we were split up. Figured no point stayin' around to get killed. Anyone else make it back?"

"Fuck!" yells Rodin, ignoring my question. He's having a tantrum, pounding the metal side of the overturned carriage. I look at Clairwil and point my thumb at Rodin.

"What's with him?"

Clairwil looks grim as he answers. "Carriage had plenty of food, plenty of bandages and medicine, and no gold or valuables at all. One of those two must have nicked anything worth taking when they crawled out. All these boys dead, and we got nothing to show for it."

"Fuck!" yells Rodin again. I shake my head in disbelief.

"Fuck," I agree.


	7. The Night

Chapter 7: The Night

That evening, we camp next to the cannon. We cook up a big feast of a bunch of food taken from the carriage, along with the stewed carcass of that dog. Having our bellies full helps lift our spirits a bit, but not by much.

Entire raid's been a disaster. We outnumbered them three to one and had a cannon at our back, and what happens? An absolute fuckin' embarrassment is what. In exchange for three of them – four counting the mutt – we lose five killed outright, including Jean and Florent. Another guy outta Clairwil's crew never came back from the Weald, so he's probably a goner too. On top of that, almost everyone who wasn't hanging back with Clairwil or the cannon was wounded – one man, Philippe, was mauled by the dog so bad we've been taking bets on whether or not he'll last till morning. We did get a whole lot of bandages and healing herbs off the carriage that we used to patch him up, so I put my money on him making it through.

Still. Food and medicine is always needed, sure, but they weren't worth the price we paid for it. We went in this for gold, and we got squat. Everyone's pissed, and that goes double for Rodin and Clairwil. The two of them went at each other's throats pretty quick once Guy and the last of the boys who went into the woods get back empty-handed, blaming one another for the colossal fuckup.

"Don't you dare lecture me!" yells Rodin. "I'm not the one that hung back by the cannon where it was safe, doing nothing, while my boys and I were getting killed. You're nothing but a damn coward!"

"Oh yeah?" snarls Clairwil. "Well, _I'm_ not the one who sent everyone charging blindly into the fucking woods! We got three dead and one missing that could all still be here if you'd let that bitch with the axe run off instead of going after her. And I'm not the one who lost all the cannonballs either."

" _You_ pull the cannon next time then! And you're the one who said someone took what we were looking for outta the carriage, smart-mouth. Obviously it was her! Or maybe her friend in the blue coat. We _had_ to go after them: they must've taken the goods!"

He hurls his plate of food into the fire.

"That fucking cunt! I get my hands on her, she's _dead_!"

I manage to stop myself from pointing out that the fucking cunt in question was the one killed three of the five that are dead, and it's unlikely Rodin would fare any better. Best not to provoke him right now.

Clairwil just sneers. "Big talk from someone couldn't even beat her in a fight. Besides, how do you even know there _were_ any valuables? Your 'inside man'? You got the wool pulled over your eyes, you idiot. Face it: we're fucked, and it's your fault."

" _My_ fault?!"

Rodin swings at Clairwil and belts him in the face. Clairwil responds by tackling Rodin, and within seconds the two of them are wrestling on the ground. Me and Guy and a couple of others quickly step in and pull them off one another before they can roll into the campfire.

"There's enough dead," Guy says curtly. He looks disgusted with the two of them, and I can't blame him.

"Room for one more!" spits Rodin.

"Fuck's sake," I say 'fore I can stop myself, "Look at you. Fighting in the dirt like a couple of kids. Some bosses you are."

I shoulda kept my mouth shut, because Rodin uses the excuse to turn on me.

"You shut your fucking mouth," he says, "before I shut it for you. You got no right to talk down to me, asshole. You came back from the Weald alone, and you're the only one seen Jean and Florent dead. Why is that? Was it 'cause you left 'em to die? Maybe you saw 'em get killed and chickened out. Maybe you're a coward too."

He's hit pretty close to the mark and I ain't proud, but unless I say something quick he'll realize he was right. And if he does, I'm dead. No place for a coward in a business like this. I think fast.

"Ain't gonna apologize for not getting killed," I say, firm as I can. "Besides, I'm not the one sitting here pointing fingers 'stead of comin' up with a solution."

"A solution?" mocks Clairwil. "And what might a 'solution' be for us getting fucked this hard?"

"Well some ointment to start with," says I. A couple of the guys laugh – including Clairwil, who snorts despite himself. "And use your heads. They couldn't've gotten far before nightfall, yeah? And we know they'll be going for the hamlet the second the sun's up – if they last the night. They got no food. They got no more than one or two torches, tops. They got no bandages or nothin'. Just the treasure they stole."

"If there was any," says Clairwil.

"My man in town don't make mistakes like that," says Rodin sullenly. "There was something good in that carriage, I'm _telling_ you."

"All right, well, if they're still alive they'll be hungry, tired, and cold," I continue. "And we know where they're headed. So we have a hope of catching them. All we need is a couple of boys, at least one good at tracking, to run 'em down, cut 'em down, and take what's ours."

"And how do we know they're still alive?" asks Rodin. "Lotta ways to die out here. The fungus-men. The spiders. Those death-cult fuckers. Or maybe the witch-woman put 'em in her pot."

"If they're dead, they're dead, and we're outta luck," Guy cuts in before I can reply. "But if your man in town's good as you say, Rodin, what they're carrying could be worth it to try."

If Guy's decided to say something, it must mean my big words sold near everyone. Hell, even Clairwil's lookin' at me with grudging respect. Only Rodin's still glaring at me.

"All right," nods Clairwil after a couple of seconds, "I like your style. So who's gonna go?"

Rodin suddenly grins wickedly, and slaps me on the shoulder.

"I think we got our first volunteer right here."

"Ah, fuck."

"I'll even do you a favour. I'll let you pick who's coming with you: any two men you want."

This ain't actually a favour, and Rodin knows it. He's mad I showed him up by thinking of a plan, and this is how he's paying me back: everyone probably likes the idea of getting the treasure back, but no one wants to get up at the crack of dawn and go into the Weald with only two men at their back. Whoever I pick's gonna be pissed at me. Still, I don't really have much of a choice.

"Well," I say after a moment to think, "I want Guy as the first man. That axe-bitch is a stone killer and I want someone good in a scrap."

"I'm into it," says Guy, who thankfully doesn't seem too mad I picked him. "Better than sitting here."

"Who's your second?" asks Rodin.

"Someone good at tracking, and preferably a decent shot with a gun. Clairwil, you got any suggestions?"

"I got just the one," he says. "Ho, Bressac! You're going on a trip."

While Guy was more or less okay with being picked, Bressac makes no effort to hide his disgust. He spits into the fire and spends about a minute cursing while Clairwil listens indulgently. As I'm sitting back down to try and finish my food, Rodin comes and sits down beside me.

"Don't think this is over," he says in a low voice. "Talking like that to me in front of the boys? You better fucking put some money where your mouth is. I promise you: come back empty-handed, and I'll have your guts for garters."

"You don't wear garters," says I.

"Keep tempting me, and I might just start," he snaps. "Oh, and by the way – Philippe just bled to death. You lost your bet. Pay up."

"Damn it," I say, and disgustedly pass him some coins.


	8. The Trail

Chapter 8: The Trail

'Bout an hour or so before the sun rises, we wake one another up and go get our stuff together. Along with our weapons, we take two bags, packing flint, tinder, eight torches, two yards of bandages, two doses of antivenom, a compass, some bullets and powder for Bressac's rifle, and enough food and water to last the three of us two days – just in case. Out here, it pays to be prepared.

"You two are carrying the packs," says Guy, when we look at him. He's never been a morning person, and he's cranky as hell. The fact the Weald's cold as the grave this time of night ain't helping his mood none either – I can see my breath by the light of the fire, and the three of us are shivering. "I spent half yesterday lugging those fucking cannonballs."

"I spent half yesterday lugging the fucking _cannon_ , and you don't see me complaining," I point out. I'm tempted to point out that he spent half yesterday _losing_ the cannonballs, but pissing off someone his size is a bad idea.

"Besides, the biggest man should carry the load," Bressac argues. I nod in agreement, but Guy's having none of it.

"The biggest man should get his way," Guy snaps back. "And I don't feel like carrying that shit."

Can't argue with that, so I quietly shoulder the pack. After a moment, Bressac follows suit, muttering to himself, and the three of us head out.

This close to dawn, there's almost no one up – just the cannon crew playin' cards by the light of a candle. I give the matchman a wave as we go past, and he waves back. Once we're out of the camp, we pick our way down to the wreck of the carriage, then turn off into the section of woods we charged into yesterday. As soon as we're into the Weald proper, Guy lights a torch so we don't have to grope around in the dark. Then Bressac starts hunting for their trail.

Bressac's a whiner – he starts complaining the second we're away from the camp, talking about how much of a pain in the ass it is to come out here, how there's no point to it and so on. I quickly tune it out, but all the same he don't let up for more than a few minutes at a time 'til Guy roars at him to shut his yap. He mostly keeps quiet after that. Still, he knows what he's doing when it comes to tracking. I tried to find my way around in this mess, I'd get lost for sure, but with Bressac looking around it's not twenty minutes gone by before we emerge into the clearing where Florent died.

Something ate most of the two bodies last night – a scavenger probably. I can only tell which body belonged to Florent because the Hellion's glaive took off most of his face above the nose, and it's hard to mistake a death that messy. That, and when I look at the corpse's teeth – easy, since the lips are gone – I see the familiar set of cavities. I quickly check his pockets, but find nothing: if he had anything of value on him, Blondie and the Hellion must've taken it. Guy lumbers over to have a look as I'm finishing up.

"They cleaned him out," I say. "Nothing but leftovers."

"Hmph," he replies. "Done the same in their place."

"Yeah," I nod. "I would've too. Shame though. I liked him."

He just shrugs. "One less man means we get a bigger share when we find the treasure."

" _If_ we find the treasure," says Bressac.

"Shut it," Guy and I snap at the same time.

"You shut it," he says wearily. "And take a look at this."

He holds up a strip of blue cloth.

"The blonde had a coat this colour," he says. "Must've snagged it on a branch. And look – there's a bootprint in the dirt here. So that means they went north, toward the Hamlet."

"The hell did they know which way the Hamlet is?" I ask. "Don't think any of them had a compass..."

"Last night, you said they'd be heading that way for sure," observes Guy.

"Er…" I croak, caught off-guard. "Well, I didn't think of that until now. That they might get lost, I mean."

"Seems your first instinct was right anyhow," says Bressac. "Maybe they _do_ have a compass. Or they could just be heading in the right direction by luck. Don't matter, anyway, as long as we can follow 'em."

"I suppose you're right," I admit. I take a moment, then start thinking aloud. "Well, it weren't more'n an hour they could've travelled before night fell, and they probably weren't stupid enough to try and travel in the dark…"

"Meaning they're close," says Bressac. "Hell, if they didn't try leaving before dawn like us, we might still catch them sleeping."

"So we gotta move quiet, then," says Guy. "You're sure you can find them?"

"I _found_ their trail, didn't I?" he replies. "They won't escape me. Count on it."

That's good enough for us, so we follow him back into the brush.


	9. The Swamp

Chapter 9: The Swamp

Gotta hand it to Clairwil – he picked the right man for this job. For all his whining and complaining, Bressac's a damn bloodhound out here: half an hour and another lit torch after we've left Florent's corpse behind us, we find what's left of a campfire in a clearing. The coals are still warm – we must've just missed them.

"The hell did they find decent wood?" I ask, as Bressac looks for footprints. "No way they pulled any firewood outta the carriage. Maybe flint, but…"

"What are you, blind? We're surrounded by trees," interrupts Guy, gesturing at the Weald surrounding us. "Where do you _think_ they got the wood? What kinda idiot would you have to be to not figure out how to get firewood in a fucking forest?"

"Didn't think this stuff burned proper no more," I mutter, looking at one of the trees. There's some of the yellow fungus growin' on it – damn stuff's being spreading all over the place past couple of years. Grows on trees, rocks, animals, and even people. I seen men and women with the blight on 'em, turned into shuffling, groaning monsters outta your worst nightmares. Makes me shudder just thinking about it.

"They went east," says Bressac at last. "Tried to cover their tracks, but I can make out a footprint. And some of the branches are broken on this bush here."

"East? Toward the _Cove_? The hell they going there for?" I ask. Bressac shrugs.

"Probably not going that way on purpose. They musta got turned around. Guess they don't have a compass after all…well, they get lost, it just makes our job easier."

I suppose it should make things easier, at that – especially seeing as they can't be too far ahead of us now – but it don't feel that way as we get back on their trail. As we keep headin' east, we see more and more fungus growing on the trees and outta the dirt, and pretty soon, the stench of the stuff hangs thick in the air. Like mold and sawdust, and rotten fruit. I been in infected places like this before, and you never get used to the smell. We all have to stop ourselves from coughing and wheezing too much, and even the torch starts guttering orange in the sour air.

"Can't hardly breathe in this crap," wheezes Bressac, after a coughing fit. "This 'treasure' better be worth it."

"You're _sure_ they went this way?" I ask.

"Trail don't lie," he manages, before spitting up a big clot of phlegm. "Ah, that's better."

Trail might not lie, but she's a treacherous bitch all the same. The Weald hanging hateful over us ain't natural no more, but we keep pushing through it all the same and just thank our lucky stars nothing's tried pickin' a fight with us yet. As we walk, the temperature starts to turn again – before I realize it's happened, it's gone from bitterly cold to disgustingly warm and humid. Just the right compliment to the stench of the fungus and mold clinging to our noses. Soon enough, the dirt beneath our feet's turned to mud, too, and we find ourselves in a swamp.

It's a lot like the mess we had to drag the cannon through yesterday – maybe a little gloomier though. There are some open spaces in the canopy letting in a bit of light, but it's still dim and hard to see. Most of the plants are yellowed with the fungus blight, and the entire place is just brown muck broken up by occasional boulders, the odd tree, and choked thickets of scrub.

"This shit again," Guy says disgustedly.

"Least we ain't pulling the cannon this time," I reply.

"Guess that's true."

"Look on the bright side," says Bressac. "Any idiot can follow their trail now."

Sure enough, there are a bunch of obvious footprints in the mud, wherever it's shallow. Guy's torch has burned low, so I light a new one – our third so far – off his, then we abandon bein' quiet and start moving as fast as we can. They're gonna be slowed down getting through this, and it's the best chance we'll get to overtake 'em. It pays off, because after a couple of minutes, we come round a small, wooded island in the mud to find our quarry.

Both are visibly exhausted, though that ain't much of a surprise. They're spattered head to foot with mud and dirt, and all scraped and slashed up from battle and brambles. Blondie's coat is so filthy it's gone from blue to brown, and her hair is pasted loosely to her scalp with sweat. Hellion's still caked with dried blood from yesterday's fight, and her war paint's started to run with sweat, congealing with the blood to streak her face brown an' blue down to the neck. But her eyes are still full of fire.

They must've heard us round the corner, cause they've got their weapons up and look ready to go down fighting. So we slow down as we approach rather than charging right in, and all of us take a moment to size one another up. Blondie's got a knife out in one hand, poised to throw, and a torch in the other. Bressac's got his rifle out, but neither of them seems to want to dare the first shot. I got the torch in my left, a knife in my right, and a spare blade in a sheath. Guy's got his scourge, and a pistol tucked in his belt. Hellion's got her glaive, and her voice.

The Hellion meets my eyes, and her face curls into the familiar sneer.

" _You_ again?"

"We just keep runnin' into one another," I grin. "But this time I ain't alone."

"You weren't alone the other two times, either," she taunts. "I like my odds."

"Bitch," I snarl.

"The fuck? You two've met?" asks Bressac. I notice him trying to draw a bead on Blondie while I've got their attention, and I step to the right a little so I don't get hit when he fires.

"Ha! He almost wet himself running from me," she responds. "Twice, in fact. Didn't think you'd have the guts to follow us again."

"Ain't you we're after," says Guy. "Give up, and we'll go easy on you."

"A pair of you tried to 'go easy on me' yesterday," spits Blondie. "I'll take my chances."

"You'll die for a piece of treasure, huh?" I smirk. "Not very smart."

The Hellion looks confused.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"There was a magical trinket in that carriage," I tell her. "What, you think we just knocked it over for laughs? Nothin' there when we looted what was left, so we know one of you got it. Just hand it over, and we'll let you go. This don't have to end in a fight."

Hellion glances momentarily at Blondie. "Is it true?" she asks.

"I…may have taken something with me when we crawled out of the wreck," admits Blondie after a moment's silence. I take a second to look back and grin at Guy and Bressac. I _knew_ one of them had it, and Blondie was fool enough to give that fact away. Now all we have to do is get rid of the women, and we're golden.

It's at that exact moment our torches suddenly go out.


	10. The Torch

Chapter 10: The Torch

I ain't afraid of the dark. And it's not like we're totally blind without the torches. I can still see Guy and Bressac, and I can just make out Blondie and the Hellion further back in the gloom. But there's no good reason our torches shoulda gone out like that, and that's what scares me.

"The fuck did you do?!" I yell at them.

"The fuck did _you_ do?!" yells back the Hellion.

Before I can reply, we suddenly hear laughing, echoing out of the dark. A woman's laughter, I'd guess, but it's hard to tell cause the laughter sounds all wrong. Hollow, almost. Like it's comin' out of a well, or echoing in a big empty room. And somehow it's both a whisper and a shout at once. It's all around us, so as I can't tell whether it's one woman speaking or many.

"Do you like it?" comes the voice, or voices. "Do you like what you see?"

"Don't see shit," Guy shouts, unfazed. I grin, and Bressac laughs nervously. From the darkness I hear the Hellion laugh too, but without the nervousness.

"Yes," the voice sighs back. "But you will…"

There's a sudden hiss, and a squelch of mud. I hear Blondie cry out, then a whirring that must've been her throwing the knife and missing. I don't know what's going on, and I still got no idea what doused the torches, but there's no time to worry about that right now.

"Guy, get the flint!" I holler. "Light my torch back up! _Quick!_ "

He doesn't say anything, but I hear him fumbling for it. All I can make out right now is sound. There's more hissing, and feet stompin' in the mud, and a thudding and moaning from somewhere in the dark. There's laughing, that awful laughter. And, right on cue…

" _Kreeeee-YAWP."_

The Hellion's hate-cry echoes through the air, and I hear something inhuman cry back as her voice hits them. There's a flash and a loud _bang_ as Bressac fires blindly toward the sound, then I hear scraping and a stream of panicked cursing as he tries to reload in the dark.

"No light," comes the phantom voice again. "No air. No hope…"

"Guy!" I scream, frantic. " _Hurry the fuck up!_ "

I see a spark as he struggles with the flint, then my torch flares back to life, and in the sudden brightness, I realize one of them's right there.

It lunges for me.

I'd've been done for if it weren't for Guy. Before I can even shout, he's drawn his pistol and pointblanked the thing, blowing a hole clean through its chest. I don't waste time, but slash in across the stomach before it can get its bearings, and belt it with the lit torch for good measure. It falls to its knees, and Guy finishes it off by smashing it with the butt of his gun. In the moment I have to look at the body before I have to get back to the fight, I finally get a chance to process what it is we just killed.

It used to be human. But now, the bloated body is overgrown with the yellow fungus blight that's rotted this swamp, and half the Weald with it. Growin' in shelves along the arms and spine. Fungal tumors all over the arms'n'legs. A clump of slimy caps comin' outta where the head used to be, and hands twisted into claws, with the skin drawn back from sharpened bones. Shoulda known it'd be these bastards. The groaning and hissing makes sense now.

What don't make sense, and I got no time to wonder at right now, is where the voice came from, or what it was put out our lights.

The torch ain't as bright as it was before, but I can still see a bunch of 'em coming outta the dark. They must've been hiding on the island; how the hell did we miss it? Aside from the one we just killed, there's another four I can make out, lurching forward from the darkness outside of the torch's light. One of them's already fighting the Hellion, and looks badly hurt – but she's driven it back so far the others can probably cut her off from Blondie if they're smart. And I'm willing to bet there's more coming up on us.

Guy wades right in with his scourge, lashing at two of them as they try to get around the Hellion. Smart move – fight like this, the five of us either work together or we're meat. We can get back to the standoff when we're done – besides, maybe we get lucky and the women'll get hurt enough we can just finish them off and search the bodies. I hear another crack as Bressac fires again, but I don't have time to see who he's trying to shoot at. I see one whose back is turned, and I run in.

The creature is fighting with Blondie. She's got her mining pick back out, but that ain't a proper weapon for a fight like this: fungal's driving her backwards. Even with no head and its back turned, though, the freak can still see enough to notice the light of the torch as I run in: it whirls to face me, narrowly batting aside my thrust with a swing of its claw. But that exposes its back to Blondie, and she swings the pick down and catches it in the right shoulder. I stamp down hard on its right foot, and as Blondie pulls her pick free, I push my knife in under the left armpit. It falls dying to the mud, and I quickly step back so Blondie can't deck me while I'm distracted. She does the same.

We look warily at one another for a moment. Fungal got in at least one good hit on her; Blondie's bleeding from a long slash along her ribs, and breathing shallowly. But she don't look hurt bad enough I could finish her off without putting myself in danger. Besides: right now, we need one another to stay alive – though I ain't showing her my back neither.

"Desperate times?" I suggest.

"Desperate times," she agrees after a moment, and we quickly look around for anyone else might be coming for us.

There are two more fungals being battered in by Guy and the Hellion, who look to have made a similar truce. There's another one lying dead at their feet, although I can see at least one more coming up on them from the shadows. Bressac's running over toward us, probably so we can give him some cover.

"Don't fuckin' shoot her," I holler at him. "She's –"

I'm interrupted by a sudden wave of gas that washes over Blondie and me. I breathe in before I can stop myself, and immediately regret it: I instantly start coughing and gagging, and my eyes burn like there's hot coals in 'em. It takes every bit of self-control I got not to try and bring my arm up to my face – with a torch in one hand and a naked blade in the other, I'd have burned or stabbed myself for sure.

We stagger around until we're free of the poison cloud, wheezing and retching. I hear Blondie puke, but I manage not to. I force my watering eyes open and look around, and manage to pick out Bressac come up close to us. Glad he's on our side – he was one of the fungals, we'd be done.

"The hell did that come from?!" I yell at him.

"Island!" he shouts back. "One of the mushroom men!"

There's another _bang_ as he fires at whatever just gassed us. I sheathe my knife and use my free hand to wipe my eyes so I can see a bit better, then draw steel again as I take a quick glance. Like Bressac said, it's one of the fungals, though a different kind than the others: this one's standing on all fours with the joints bent the wrong way, and the stomach blown out and fulla slimy toadstools. As I watch, it scuttles backward, likely tryin' to get out of range of the torchlight.

"Blondie!" I call. "You got throwing knives! Use 'em!"

"I've run out!" she yells back, looking less confident now there's two of us and one of her.

" _Fuck!_ "

"Just _charge_ the bastard!" shouts Bressac. "Kill it before it gasses us again!"

"Right," I call back. "Ready, Blondie?"

She takes a sec to wipe the puke off her face, then nods.

"Let's do this."


	11. The Voice

Chapter 11: The Voice

Blondie and I run at the island full tilt, with Bressac covering us from a distance. Even on all fours, the fungal bombard can scuttle back way faster than I thought it could, but a well-timed rifle shot from Bressac knocks it off-balance for a sec and gives us a chance to catch up. In the last couple of seconds before we close in, though, I slow down a bit so Blondie pulls ahead of me – just in case the thing has some kinda trick up its sleeve.

Like when we hit the carriage, staying back pays off. As soon as she's close enough to reach it, the thing jets out another cloud of poison gas that catches Blondie full-on. Idiot woman must not've held her breath, 'cause she immediately staggers back, blinded and hacking her lungs out. I step left and lunge in past her – the creature's head is facing the wrong way away from me, so I aim low and stab it between the legs, then rip downwards.

Wound like that'd put a man – or woman – on the ground dying, but it ain't human no more, so it just hisses and keeps trying to get away. I kick hard at one of its knees, and the bombard falls writhing to the dirt. Before it can get back up, I get around it and start kicking and stomping it in the head. At the same time, Blondie recovers enough to smash it with her pick, and together we hack, stab, and batter it till it stops movin'.

Once I'm sure it's dead, I take a sec to spit on the carcass.

"Fucking freak," I pant, still outta breath.

Blondie looks for a moment like she's gonna reply, then opens her mouth and gags. I step back quickly, but didn't have to bother: nothing left in her stomach but a thin string of bile that trickles out of her mouth and down her chin. Then she starts coughing again, and shiverin' like she got a fever. That thing really poisoned her good: hell, she might keel over without me having to do a thing.

The sounds of battle are dying down, so I take a quick look over at the others. Guy and the Hellion've made a deadly pair, especially considering they were away from the torch and fighting in the shadows. Musta been four or five came at 'em all told, but only two are left. Even as I watch, one of the two keels over dead at their feet. The last one's still swinging blindly at them, but they'll probably finish it off before a minute's up. Bressac's jogging toward Blondie and me, looking 'round for anyone else.

I hear a _splat_ and turn back to see that Blondie just dropped her pickaxe into the mud – musta slipped from her hands during her coughing fit. Golden opportunity if ever there was one: before she can grab it again, I quickly get up close and step down on it. Blondie slowly looks up at me, and I just smile, enjoying the expression on her face as she realizes she got nothing to defend herself with.

"You _bastard_ ," she chokes, her eyes on my knife. I make sure to grip it tight in case she tries something.

"Nothin' personal," I leer. "It's just the times ain't quite as desperate now."

She steps back a few paces, and I laugh. By the time the Hellion and Guy are finished killing that last fungal, Bressac and I'll have Blondie prisoner, and the glaive-bitch'll _have_ to surrender if we got a knife at her friend's throat. Then we can take whatever we want from them – including the treasure.

"Now," I say, "Let's talk about that trinket you stole…"

I'm interrupted by another bout of the phantom laughter, coming from the darkness out of torch range.

"Yes," it sighs. "Turn on each other. I knew you would…"

"Shut up!" I roar. "You gonna come out and fight us, or are you only good for big talk and playin' tricks with the light?"

More laughter.

"Light," it hisses, "To see your doom."

Then, without warning, something I thought was just a boulder stands up just out of light range.

It's a giant. A real one, I mean: even bigger than Guy. Tall as two men standing on one another's shoulders, back all covered in thick shelves of fungus, and as I watch it rips a sapling clear outta the ground for a club. Son of a bitch was hiding there the whole time – toying with us. Didn't think these freaks had enough human left in 'em to like playin' games with their food.

Guy and the Hellion, who've just finished off the fungal they were fighting, turn and look at it in shock. But Bressac's got the worst of it, because the giant's right on top of him in two steps. He screams and fires a shot point-blank at it, but it's like a pinprick. With a groan, it swings the tree across in a sweeping arc that catches Bressac with a _crunch_ and hurls him twenty feet to land motionless in the mud.

I look back at Blondie for a sec, then take my foot off the pick and run toward the others. They run at us too, and the four of us meet in the middle then turn to fight it.

"Get behind him!" bellows Guy, and slashes in at the giant with his scourge. "C'mon, asshole!" he hollers at it, to get its attention. "I been lookin' for a fight my size!"

But even as the Hellion, Blondie and me all split up to try and circle around it, the voice comes echoing at us from the darkness.

"Light, to see your doom," it repeats. "And darkness to meet it!"

Then my torch goes out again.

"Son of a _bitch!_ " I scream, and hurl the useless piece of wood into the darkness.

My eyes ain't had time to get used to the dark yet, but I can still make out Guy and the giant facing off from one another. I can't tell where Blondie and the Hellion are, though. Giant leans down and I hear a hissing noise, but I don't fall for it again: I hold my breath and screw my eyes shut before the cloud can wash over me. But even though I manage not to get poisoned, I end up stumbling off in the confusion: when I open my eyes again I got no idea where I am.

"Alone," comes the voice, "and blind…"

"I catch you, woman," I howl, "You'll wish you'd never been _born_!"

In reply, I see a ball that glows faintly swing out of the darkness at me. It catches me in the shoulder, and a hot puff of something smells sickly sweet washes over my face just as I'm breathing in. I start coughing, and my tongue starts to tingle – more of the poison gas.

"Blind," comes the voice again, "in the dark…"

The glowing ball appears again, but I dodge this time and manage to hold my breath long enough to avoid it filling my lungs again. This time, I keep my eyes on it – from the way it moves, and a faint clinking I heard, I realize it's some kind of poison incense burner on a chain.

"Let it fill you," it calls from behind and in front and beside me. "Let it grow inside you…"

I focus, and when the burner loops back, I slash out at it with my knife. The chain tangles around the blade, and both the voice and I yank on it at the same time. I manage to wrench it outta the voice's hands, but the handle slips from my grasp and both knife and burner fly off into the darkness. I don't waste time, but stumble forward to where I felt the pressure on the burner while groping out with my hands.

I manage to snatch hold of something. Feels like a fur coat. I grab out with my other free hand, and it closes on what feels like a human wrist – no fungus or nothin'.

"I got you _now_ , you fucking _cunt_!" I snarl. The thing hisses, and I feel it snatch at my collar and then close its free hand on my throat. It's surprisingly strong – could probably choke me out if I let it. But I ain't letting it.

Rule one of grappling – fight dirty. I let go of the coat and reach over to where the face must be. It tries to twist its head back as it realizes what I'm about to do, but before it does I manage to find an eye socket and gouge in my right thumb. It screams in agony, and keeps trying to twist back, but I step closer so it can't get away then use my other hand to grab at the thumb round my throat. I yank it backward, the wrong way, and feel the bone break.

The voice's screaming is everywhere as I push my thumb into its eye up to the knuckle. It's stopped trying to choke me, and's grabbin' at my hand to try and pull it off. I curl my left index and middle fingers like a fish-hook, then put 'em into the open mouth and rip sideways. Then I drive my right knee into its crotch before using my left hand to gouge out the other eye too.

"Who'ths blind now?!" I rasp, my voice comin' out all slurred and funny for some reason. "Whooth fuckin' blin' _now_?!"

It falls to its knees, still screaming. I take my hands out of its sockets, put them on the back of its head as a brace, and then drive my left knee into its face – once, twice, three times. On the last blow, I feel something give way with a crack, and it finally stops screaming and falls backward dead into the mud.

"Cahhh," I say, and realize I can't breathe.

Adrenaline kept me going through that fight, but now I've killed the thing I finally notice how my throat's closing, and my tongue's all swelled up. Explains why I couldn't speak properly. No time to worry about the giant still out there: I take my pack off, and start going through it for the antivenom – after a few seconds, I find the bottle, and quickly pull the cork and drink it down. Whoever made this stuff knew what they were doing, cause the second I swallow the tingling stops and I can get a proper breath again. Still gasping, I pat myself down to make sure I'm not hurt, and realize as my hand touches the handle that I never drew my spare knife – it's still in the sheath. Could've finished the voice off a lot quicker if I'd remembered, but no point worrying about that now.

The next thing I do is quickly check the voice's corpse for anything valuable. Yeah, it's risky, but I'm betting Guy and the others'll keep the giant tied up long enough for me to finish, and I might not find the body again once I get moving. I've done this before and know the usual places to check even in the dark, so it's only a few seconds before I touch a bag full of hard things that could be gemstones. I stuff the bag in a pocket. Finally, I pull the last two torches out of the pack: one I stuff in my belt for quicker access, and the other I have to hold between my thighs while I try to strike the piece of flint I got.

After a few more seconds, the torch flares to life, and I grab it and struggle to my feet, drawing my other knife as I do it. I don't bother looking at the voice's corpse, because it don't matter what it was no more now it's dead – instead I whirl round until I can make out the others. Then I start running toward them.

It's fucked. Guy musta went in with his bare hands, too – got the giant in a headlock, and forced it to one knee. The branch it was using as a club is lying in the mud: he must've wrestled it from the giant's hands. But it's not defenseless: even as I watch, it blasts him in the face again and again with clouds of poison from the spores all along its back. Guy's face is all bloated and horrible: his eyes swelled shut, his tongue and lips ballooned out three times bigger than they should be. I can't believe he ain't dead, but somehow he's still holding on.

The Hellion, for her part, is hacking away at the giant's exposed legs and back with her glaive, while Guy pins it in place so it can't fight back. For a second, I can't find Blondie, then I notice a figure writhing in the mud – she's so covered in the stuff I can't recognize her, but there's no one else it could be with Bressac already dead. Her face is swollen up too, and she's clutching at her throat.

The giant's struggles are getting weaker – the Hellion's reaved it open all over, and hacked up its spine and organs: like Guy, it's got no right still being alive. In the light of the torch, I watch the Hellion take one last, mighty swing that spills a whole bunch of its guts into the mud. As the giant starts going limp, Guy pulls back on its head with all his might, and the neck finally gives way. He lets go, and it falls motionless to the ground. Guy remains standing for a moment, swaying a bit, then falls down facefirst over its corpse. He don't move either. I glance over at Blondie, and realize she's stopped moving too.

The Hellion looks around, and our eyes meet. That's when it hits me. Guy and Bressac are dead. Blondie's dead. The voice, the giant, and the mushroom men are all dead. All that's left is the mud, the corpses, the Hellion, and me.


	12. The Pact

Chapter 12: The Pact

I'm fucked.

There's no way I can beat the Hellion in a fair fight. Yeah, fine, if I got behind her I could put a knife in her back and she'd die like anyone else. Or if I had six other guys and we went in all at once, we could surround her and cut her down. But I got no one but me, and I can't get behind her. I could beg for my life, but even if she let me go, there's no way she'll hand over the treasure without a fight. And Rodin'll cut my throat for sure if I come back emptyhanded.

The Hellion knows she got me at her mercy, because she's wearing a confident grin as she looks me over. I ever get the chance, I'm gonna enjoy wiping that smug look off her face.

"Well, well, well," she taunts, stepping in a little closer. I don't back down yet – she's still out of glaive range. "Here we are again. I think this is the part where you run away, isn't it?"

I shake my head.

"Ain't runnin'."

"I can't tell if you finally grew a spine," she jeers, "or if you're just stupid. Every time you face me, your friends die. You must really get off on -"

"Go to hell," I snap, cutting her off. "And you know what else? This time, _your_ friend's dead _too_. How's that taste?" I point over at Blondie's corpse for emphasis.

I smile with pleasure as she flinches, then looks over at Blondie and realizes her friend ain't moving no more. When she looks back at me, her eyes are filled with hate.

" _You_ did this."

"How'dya figure that?" I snigger. "Me and the others hadn't shown up when we did, them fungals woulda pulled you to pieces. It's thanks to us _you're_ still breathing, even if she ain't. You should thank me."

"If you hadn't attacked us in the first place," she spits back, "they'd _all_ be alive. Her, and everyone else you killed. You're nothing but a bunch of thieves and murderers. I'll kill every one of you bastards for this, and I'll start with _you_."

"Yeah? Where was that righteous speech when you and Guy was fighting together?" I goad, not flinching.

That shuts her up. She glances at his corpse.

"He was…brave," she eventually admits.

"He was," I nod. "Look, I just lost friends too, woman. Think there's been enough death for one day, don't you?" Well, strictly speaking, I only met Bressac yesterday evening, but I got along well enough with Guy. Anyway, laying it on thick'll help pull on her heartstrings.

She's quiet for a while.

"Fine," she grates after half a minute. "Get out of here. But you're not getting your filthy hands on whatever it was Justine took from the carriage."

I'm confused for a sec, then realize she's talking about Blondie. Guess that was her name. Still: I expected she wouldn't be willing to give up the treasure, but if I don't think of some way to get it off her, I'm good as dead even if it's not her that kills me. I think hard.

"Your friend fought at my side," she continues, "so, for the sake of honour, I'll give you your life. But I won't give you your blood-money."

All of a sudden, an idea pops into my head.

"Be smart," says I. "You still need me."

"And how is that, little man?" she asks scornfully. I grin as I play my trump card.

"How're you planning on gettin' back to town?"

Her eyes go wide, and the sneer of contempt falls from her face. She probably didn't think about that 'till now.

"You got no food," I go on, counting the points off on my fingers for emphasis. "You got no torches. You got no idea where you are. And you're alone. Seems to me you're in need of a friend."

"A friend like _you_?" she scoffs, unconvinced.

"Desperate times, yeah?" I shrug. "Think about it. We got food and supplies with us was supposed to last three men two days – and one of those three was _him_ ," I add, pointing at Guy's body. "Between the two of us, I bet we could stretch it to four or five. And also: the man that giant clubbed down, Bressac. He had a compass on him. I ain't a tracker like he was, but I know enough to lead you back to town. For a price."

"The price, of course, being whatever it was Justine stole."

"You got it."

She looks at me coldly.

"And if I decide to kill you and take the food and compass for myself?" she suggests, her voice going real soft. I don't flinch – just look as confident and carefree as possible.

"Then I put this here torch out in the mud. Good luck findin' his corpse in the dark."

"Perhaps I'd be willing to take that chance," she says, her voice still quiet and dangerous.

"You don't know the Weald like I do," I point out. "I been livin' out here for years, woman, and _you_ came here on a carriage a day ago. Even with a compass, you'd have no idea where the nearest town is. Face it: unless you feel like dying alone out here, you need me."

"And you?" she asks bitterly. "What do you get out of this?"

"The treasure, of course. What else?"

This ain't a lie, but it's not the entire truth either. I don't wanna face the Weald alone if I can help it, and even if the Hellion's an arrogant bitch, she's the deadliest fighter I know, not to mention the only one I got right now. Right now, I need her just as much as she needs me if I'm gonna make it home alive. Not that I'll ever tell her that.

Still, she's bein' stubborn.

"All _this,_ " says she, "all this death, for a piece of treasure? You make me _sick_."

"I don't give a shit what you think," I snarl. "Wanna talk about death? Lotta my friends is corpses cause of you. You hate my guts? Well, I hate yours right back, you fucking dyke. But right now, either we work together, or we die. Simple as that."

She glares daggers at me, but stays quiet – thinkin'. I let her: sometimes the best thing to persuade someone something is to let 'em think on it for a spell. But from the expression on her face, I'm pretty sure I've got her.

"How do you know it's not broken?" she suggests, sounding desperate. Like she's clutching for any reason not to bargain with me. "The giant hit him pretty hard."

"I don't," I admit. "But we'd better hope it ain't, or else _neither_ of us is makin' it home."

She hesitates for a few more seconds, then her shoulders slump in resignation.

"All right," she says. "It's a deal. But you'd better –"

"I want your _word_ , woman," I interrupt. This is a bit of a gamble – she mentioned 'honour' earlier, so I'm hoping she's the kind of person doesn't go back on their word once it's given. "Your word of honour, specifically," I clarify.

" _You_ are _without_ honour," she hisses.

"But _you_ ain't."

She grinds her teeth. "On my honour, and my family's. Lead me to town, and I'll give you what you've asked for. But so help me – try anything, and I'll cut your cock off and feed it to you."

I smile at her.

"Good".


	13. The Compass

Chapter 13: The Compass

Without any more words, we split up – the Hellion to go retrieve the treasure from Blondie's corpse, and me to retrieve the compass from Bressac's. I move quickly, and eventually make it over to where Bressac is lyin' on his side in the mud. His rifle's lying nearby, but one look tells me it's wrecked – good gunsmith could fix it maybe, but out here, it's useless. As I come up on the corpse, though, I realize it ain't really a corpse.

He's still breathing, a little. Giant's club smashed his arm and shoulder to splinters, with bloody fragments of bone sticking through the skin. It busted in half his ribs to boot. But I can still hear a faint, rattling gasp.

"Bressac?" I call quietly.

"Hhhhh," he whimpers.

I take another look at his wounds. No way we can move him in his state, and this ain't somethin' I can fix with bandages.

"I'll make it quick," I tell him.

"Hh," he whispers, twitching a little. "Ghhkhh…"

I turn him over – he moans as I do it – and strip off the pack, then quickly check his pockets. He's got bullets and powder for his gun, and a couple of coins. I take it all. Then I push my knife under his ribs, into the heart.

When it's done, I wipe the knife off on his coat, then rummage through his pack for the compass. Miraculously, it still works – his body took the impact from the club, and left the compass more or less undamaged. Once I'm sure it still points north properly, I pocket it.

I look behind me, and notice the Hellion still by Blondie's carcass. Sayin' prayers or something, maybe. Whatever she's doing, it gives me an extra minute, so I take the time to look through the bag I took off the voice. Opening it with one hand – I need the other to hold the torch – is tricky, but I eventually manage to do it.

When I see what's inside, I chuckle – they _are_ gemstones. Three emeralds, square-cut, and a small ruby cut brilliant. Should be worth quite a bit. The ruby's small enough to swallow, so I gulp it down with some water from my canteen – I figure no one's gonna check my guts unless I'm dead, and if I'm dead I won't need the money. All I gotta do is remember to check my shit real carefully for the next couple days, then once it comes back out I wash it off and keep it for myself. As for the emeralds, I put them back in the bag. I figure if the Hellion fucks me over, I'll at least have _something_ to give Rodin, so maybe I still keep my head. If she keeps her word, I'll just hand them over along with the treasure and call it a bonus.

I look back at the Hellion and see that she's finished with Blondie and is coming toward me. I walk over and we meet in the middle, near the island.

"The compass works?" she asks without preamble.

"Yep," I respond, and toss her Bressac's pack. "And your half of the food's in here, with some bandages and a couple extra torches."

She briefly inspects the pack, then shoulders it. "Which way are we going, then?"

"Hold the torch for a spell, and I'll explain."

Once we've managed to pass it over without burning ourselves, we squat down, and I pick up a stick and start drawing a crude diagram in the mud as I talk – I ain't an artist, but it'll do for an illustration. I start by sketching out a bendy line, with a circle at one end.

"Okay, look. Here's the Old Road. It runs between the Hamlet" – I tap the circle – "to the north, and the next town two days' ride to the south. We hit you at a bend in the road, here" – I draw an X above a crook in the line – "where the road curves east a bit to go around a defile. Now, once you and Blondie lost us, you started going north until you made camp. But when you left camp this morning, you was goin' _east_ stead of north."

The Hellion sighs deeply. Her expression's grimmer than usual.

"So I _was_ leading us the wrong way," she says to herself, her voice soft and bitter. "I should have listened to her…"

"No point worrying about that now," I shrug.

"So, the two of us just go north then?"

"Ain't that simple," I say, shaking my head. "See, I can't tell just how _far_ east you went – this here's a compass, not a map. Hamlet's not so big – we go straight north, we might walk right past it and end up in the ruins north of town, and that's time lost coming back even if nothing kills us on the way. Or, if we're really unlucky, we end up in what's left of the old manor northeast of the ruins – the Darkest Dungeon, they call it. And don't _nobody_ come back from there."

"I thought you said you could lead me to town!"

"Shut up and listen, wouldya? Look, Hamlet's north, and you went east by mistake, yeah? So we go _northwest_. That means we eventually hit either the Hamlet or the Old Road. We hit the Hamlet, great, no more problems. We hit the Old Road, all we gotta do is walk north along the road and we eventually reach town. Either case, you hand over the treasure once you're there, then we part ways. Simple."

She looks suspicious and frustrated as she stares at the crude map. From the looks of things, she's having difficulty following me – maybe she ain't good with directions. So much the better, then.

"If you hit us on the Old Road, your friends would still be camped there waiting for you," she points out. "So how do I know you're not leading me right to them?"

Damn; I'd hoped she'd miss that detail. Still, I can probably fast talk her. If I make my directions as confusing as possible, there's a good chance she'll be too proud to admit she's lost.

"Look at the map again," I say, tapping it for emphasis. "We set up the gun to the _south_. That's why we go _north_ and west – so we come out above them beyond their picket line." I pick an arbitrary point and draw an arrow suitably far away from the X. Then I randomly draw a bunch more lines while using the fanciest words I can think of and speaking as quickly as I can. "Going off the compass rose, I say maybe we go two forty, thirty radians about a mile a half or two, so as our approach vector comes in oblique. Then when we hit the median, we quickly bank down about ten or so fore we push on, just to be safe."

Her eyes glaze over, and I can tell I've lost her.

"Whole thing shouldn't take longer than a day and a half," I continue. "We camp in the woods once night hits, and if we get up at dawn we'll make the road before noon. Then we're golden."

She stares at the drawing for another second, then slowly nods.

"All right, then. That makes sense."

I suppress a grin. I ain't Bressac and I can't bring her right back to the cannon any more than I could take her right to the Hamlet. But, I _can_ try to make sure we go more west than north, so we still end up close to the gun where the others might find us.

Way I see it, then, this whole thing could pay off one of two ways. Best case scenario is we run into the boys. Rodin and Clairwil won't have moved on yet, seeing as they're waiting for Guy, Bressac and me to return, but they'll have sent out patrols to secure the area. We run into a patrol, it'll be four or five to one – more if they bring reinforcements – and even the Hellion can't beat those odds alone. Once she's dead, the treasure's ours.

It's also possible I overshoot, or they got sloppy with their perimeter, and we don't run into them. If so, I'm still okay, cause all I gotta do then is keep my word and take her all the way to the Hamlet. Then she hands over the treasure and I double back and link up with Rodin.

There's a couple of ways, though, this can go wrong. One is we run into somethin' nasty on the way. Even together, if we run into a fight like the last one, we're done for. But that's an occupational hazard in the Weald, and I run that risk no matter what I do. Two is she goes back on her word and kills me the second we hit the Road or the Hamlet – or gets greedy and refuses to give over the treasure.

That second possibility's the real danger. After all: if our situations were reversed, I'd kill her the second I hit town and she stopped bein' useful. I expect as much from her – I've killed men for less than the promise of the treasure she got. I take her to the Hamlet, all I can do is bank on her honour mattering more to her than her hate. And that ain't a gamble I'm willing to bet my life on.

Besides, even if I _were_ willing to bet my life on her honour, there's still the fact I want to get even for her killing Florent. I could maybe forgive her for killing Jean, since he and I never talked much, but Florent always had my back, even if he thought with his cock more than was good for him. Yeah, fine, there's no profit in vengeance: if it comes down to a choice between getting even and getting paid, I'll take the money. But I'm hoping I won't have to choose. Still, Hellion's no fool. She'll expect me to lead her into a trap – doubt she'll sleep tonight either. I'll need to play it careful.

"So," I ask her, "you ready?"

"You're going in front," she says, as she climbs to her feet. "So I can keep an eye on you."

Like I said – Hellion's no fool.


	14. The Weald

Chapter 14: The Weald

We make good time – within a quarter of an hour, we're out of the swamp, and back into the Weald proper. Both of us went through the fungus before, so the Hellion readily agrees when I suggest we try to go around that crap rather than through this time. It ain't perfect, since it's still all over, but at least we don't hack our lungs out as badly going out as we did going in – even if we're still soaked with sweat in half an hour.

I make a great show of pulling out the compass every so often to check we're still going the right way – making scrupulously sure we're headed due northwest when she's looking, then, once we're headed out, making sure to bank us west. It's not too hard, actually – just gotta make sure you mostly turn left when you can. It helps that the Weald's a tangle of overgrown paths, so it's harder for the Hellion to tell what direction I'm taking her.

I sneak a glance back at her every now and again. Never met a woman before was head and shoulders above me – gotta be six and a half foot tall at least, all lumpy battle scars and whipcord muscle. She's still spattered with the swamp mud, liquefying in her sweat, and her face is set in the usual glare. She also stinks worse'n a sewer – even walking in front I can smell her from here. Stale sweat, stale blood, and stale shit, all trapped in the reeking furs she got on. Guess I can't hold it against her – I ain't had a proper bath in a long time neither, and both of us have been through two big fights in as many days. I probably smell just as bad if not worse.

That's her, then. Six and a half foot of rancid stench, hard muscle, and bad attitude. Glad she's on my side for now.

The two of us do get in one fight, maybe an hour in – bunch of spiders the size of dogs come at us from the brush. Hellion kills two with a single sweeping blow. One of the fuckers jumps at me, all dripping with poison – once lost a man off our crew like that. I've seen that trick before, though, and I'm ready for it: I lunge forward with my knife and the thing skewers itself on the blade. The last spider I swing the torch at – it scuttles backward, hissing, and the distraction's enough for the Hellion to swing down with a blow that hacks it in half. Whole thing is over in six seconds.

I don't admit it to her, obviously, but I'm glad the glaive-bitch was with me for this one. If it had been just me against four spiders, I'd've been dead – _with_ her, though, it was so easy I'm almost disappointed. After checking to make sure neither of us got bit, we move on.

Even though we only have a few hours of travel before dusk, it feels like days. Don't help that neither of us speak to one another, except when absolutely necessary – the one time I attempt to make conversation, she ignores me, and I quickly give up. Somehow, time passes, and it's eventually dusk.

We gather what wood we can, and then get a fire going. Then we put together a quick meal from the packs – dried oats, chestnuts, and a couple pieces salt jerky. While the water's boiling, I mix the oats in with water from my canteen 'till it's paste, then boil it in the pot to make gruel. When the gruel's cooked, the Hellion cracks the nuts and crumbles them in, and then we have it with the jerky. It's bland, but the Hellion eats ravenously all the same – she didn't have any food last night, so she musta been starving. For dessert, I fish out an apple from the pack, slice it in two, and toss half to the Hellion.

We're down to our last two torches, so once I'm done with the apple I take a spare piece of kindling and wrap one end with the bandages, then I mix most of Bressac's gunpowder with some cooking grease and soak the bandages in it. Hopefully it'll carry a light. As I'm working, the Hellion pulls a pouch from her furs and mixes whatever's inside with water – it makes a batch of the blue warpaint, and she uses the remaining water to clean her face a bit before applying a fresh coat.

The entire time – cooking, eating, and working – we don't say nothing to each other. Not a fuckin' word. Eventually, once I'm done with the torch and we're just sitting round the fire, the boredom gets too much, and I decide to try my luck on a conversation again.

"So," I say, "You got a name?"

"Names are for friends," says she. I just laugh.

"What, you want I should just call you 'Hellion'? Or you maybe you'd prefer 'glaive-bitch'?"

For once, she doesn't rise to the bait, and just shrugs. "Hellion will do."

"What'd you even come here for, Hellion?" I ask, rubbing my arms. This fucking place's got cold again all a sudden.

She doesn't reply. But I'm not giving up – if I have to sit here freezing my ass off, I might as well get the pleasure of baiting her.

"Ain't no one comes up this shithole without a reason," I prompt. "Was it gold, I wonder?"

She glares at me, but still doesn't talk.

"I bet it _was_ gold you came here for," I continue, meeting her eyes. "You know, you ought've taken my offer when we first met; joined up with us. Woman of your skills'd make a good living in my line of work. Better than whatever that stingy bastard callin' the shots up at the Hamlet would offer, any case."

"Be like you? I'd rather die," she finally snaps. "It's not gold I came for. It's glory. The glory of sending demons and monsters and men like you to hell, where they belong."

I chuckle. "Glory, huh? That's just another way of saying you're in it for the killing. Guess I can respect that. Known a lot of boys preferred red to gold."

"That's not the same thing," she flares.

"Ain't it?" I drawl. Seeing how far I can push the Hellion without turning her violent's a dangerous game, but getting under her skin's satisfying enough to be worth the risk. I sit quietly and wait – and sure enough, she can't let me have the last word.

"I have honour," she says. I roll my eyes real theatrical, making sure she can see, and she grinds her teeth so loud I can hear it. "I'm nothing like you, you bastard," she chokes.

"Oh yeah?" I taunt, enjoying the game. "We're both survivors, for one. Everyone's dead but you an' me. We've both lost a lotta friends the last two days, for another."

"All of whom would still be alive if you hadn't attacked us. You'll get no sympathy from me."

"Don't expect none," I shrug. "Hitting the carriage, coming after you and Blondie, agreeing to take you to the Hamlet – it was just business, yeah? Career as a bandit –"

"Ah, yes, 'business'," she interrupts, oozing contempt. "All your treachery, for what? A few coins for you to gamble and drink away while you brag to your friends about all the people you robbed and murdered and raped. You're disgusting."

"You think I'm the fuckin' devil, huh?" I snarl, suddenly on the defensive. "You think I got no soul? Well I might be the devil, but that's only cause I live in hell. And you know what else? I want out. I want fuckin' _out_."

"You think I wanna be out here forever?" I demand, violently jabbing my thumb at the Weald hanging over us. "Out here in this fucking hellhole, where you can't even get a proper bite to eat without killing a man for it? Every day a fight for your life. Every night spent cowerin' round a dim fire, wondering what's looking at you from the dark. You seen what happened in that swamp. You seen what happened when we hit you. That's what life out here is. Always."

I suddenly realize that I'm not lying to her, or trying to get under her skin. I mean every word I'm saying.

I never really put it together till now. Maybe I never felt this way till now. But I ain't lying. I hate this fucking place; this rotted corpse used to be a forest. Can't even get proper loot no more: all the civvies who was easy pickings, they're all dead or hiding safe in the Hamlet. Now it's always a fight. Hell, half the time we gotta send raiding parties to the Cove or Warrens and duke it out with the fish and pig men if we want decent pay. Hellion's right, too – when we do get money, we piss it away. And we never get out…

"That's what the treasure's for," I go on, talking more to myself now than to the Hellion. "Sell it and slice the money among all of us, it's a start. Couple more scores like that's all it takes, then I can get the fuck outta here and never come back…"

I trail off, and take a swig from my canteen.

"You want a piece of advice, Hellion?" I go on, my voice thick. "The second you hit the Hamlet, you get on the next carriage and you get the fuck outta this place. That's the happiest fuckin' ending _you'll_ ever get. Ain't no glory here."

She doesn't say anything for a while. She's still looking at me with contempt, but there's curiosity now 'neath the hatred.

"And when you're gone?" she eventually asks. "What's a brigand do when he retires?" I scratch my head.

"I dunno," I admit. "Haven't thought it through yet. Friend of mine, Florent, he used to talk about maybe buying a winery one day, when he was rich. Seeing as he's dead, maybe I'll do it instead."

"How'd he die?" she asks.

"You killed him," says I.

She don't say nothing back, and we're quiet for a few seconds.

"Anyway," I continue, "I'll find a pretty girl, I guess. Start a family. Use the money to make sure my kids go to school like I never could. Learn to read and all."

She nods.

"I can't read either," she admits. "My husband tried to teach me, but it never made any sense."

"Your husb…" I repeat stupidly before it clicks. "Wait, you're _married_?"

"I was. A widow, now." She holds up her right hand, and for the first time I notice the golden band around the ring finger. Memento, I guess.

"...Huh," I manage. "Didn't figure you for the domestic type. Thought you was a dyke, matter of fact."

She smiles bitterly.

"Most men do assume that. He didn't, though. Wasn't intimidated by what I look like. It's what I used to love about him..."

She trails off as she remembers who she's talking to, and we go quiet again. She's stopped glaring at me, and seems lost in thought. Thinking about him, maybe. Didn't think a killer like her'd have a soft spot, but I guess you can never really tell.

"What happened to him?" I eventually hazard.

"Plague," she says simply. I grunt acknowledgement. I lost my mom to the plague, too, a long time ago.

Don't act so fucking surprised. Of course I had a mother. Everyone had a mother.

"Don't think this makes us friends," she adds, as an afterthought. Her face is curled into the old familiar sneer. Guess bonding time is over – probably she's realized she's showing weakness.

"Don't expect it to," says I. "Just havin' a chat, is all."

"Hmph."

"Ain't friendship I want from you, anyway," I say, lying down in the dirt. "We done too much to eachother for that. All I want is what you promised."

"You'll get it," she says coldly. "When we get to town."

"Good," I nod. "So, what was it Blondie stole, anyway?"

"You'll find out," she deadpans. "When we get to town."

"For fuck's sake," I mutter. Guess I waited this long, though – few more hours won't hurt.

"She had a name, you know," she goes on. "Justine. Not 'Blondie'."

"You're the one said names were for friends," I snap.

She laughs without humour.

"You've got me there."

I laugh too, and look up into the pitch-black darkness of the canopy above us.

"Don't worry," I tell her. "You and I don't gotta put up with one another much longer. Tomorrow, Hellion - tomorrow it ends."

"Tomorrow it ends," she echoes.


	15. The Road

Chapter 15: The Road

Hellion wakes me up round what I assume is dawn – though it's hard to tell this deep in the Weald, where the polluted trees grow so thick it's near pitch black even at high noon. She don't look like she had more than an hour or two's sleep, if that. There's dark rings under her eyes now, and as much as she tries to hide it, I can tell from the way she moves as we get our stuff together that she's exhausted. Makes sense she didn't sleep – probably expected me to cut her throat if she did.

Well, so much the better if she's tired: it'll make things easier if I manage to lead her to the boys.

We have a fast breakfast of a couple more pieces of the jerky, and I light a torch off the campfire before we put it out. Then we move on. We make decent time, and luck's good to us: we don't get in a fight. Last thing I need is a bunch of fungus men or the death cultists coming in for a dance. Like yesterday, I keep banking us west, toward the gun and our camp beside it. Also like yesterday, we don't talk to one another: Hellion must've got her fill of talking last night, because she doesn't respond to any of my attempts to make conversation. Soon enough I'm actually _hoping_ for a fight, to break up the monotony.

Eventually, the wood starts thinning out a bit, so a bit of sunlight can come in through the canopy – enough the dark's just gloomy rather than blinding. The fungus stops being as heavy, then mostly fades away unless you look hard. We're getting close; road can't be that much further off. I keep my eyes and ears peeled for a patrol, but none comes – which makes me nervous. We should've run into the boys by now. Then again, I guess it's possible I took her too far north after all.

Soon enough, I spot the Old Road through the trees – no more than a hundred metres off. I stop and point it out.

"Looks like we made it," I say.

Right after the words are outta my mouth, I hear a snapping and cracking in the distance, like someone blundering through the woods – moving fast, and not giving a shit if someone hears 'em.

"You hear that?" I ask the Hellion. She replies with a sour smile.

"Looks like you spoke too soon," she says, as I draw my remaining knife.

I already know something's wrong. Rodin and Clairwil ain't sloppy – our boys wouldn't charge like that unless there was a fight already on. If it's a patrol, they're already running for it – and if they're running, something'll be coming after 'em. If it ain't them, it could still be something mean.

Sound keeps closing in fast – but before I can suggest we hide and wait for it to pass, the Hellion does something incredibly stupid.

"Who goes there?!" she roars at the top of her lungs.

"Have you lost your fucking _mind_ , woman?!" I hiss.

Before she can answer, a pair of figures blunder into the clearing. It takes me a second to recognize them. One is the matchman. The other's Rodin.

Now I _know_ something's gone fucking wrong. Rodin's spattered with blood – can't tell if it's his or someone else's – and he's got an ugly bruise on his cheek like someone cold-cocked him. The matchman's clothes are all tore up like he's been in a fight, and he's got no weapon – just an unlit torch tucked in his belt. We all stare at one another, aghast.

Rodin recovers first. "The fuck is this?" says he.

"This is me getting that treasure of yours," says I. "The fuck happened to you?"

I glance back at the Hellion. She's got her glaive up, and is looking warily at us – so much for leading her into a trap unawares. Damn it! She'll probably have recognized Rodin from when they fought at the carriage, too: hard to mistake his fancy blue hood. Still, the fact they came in pell-mell and looking hurt seems to have convinced her this isn't an ambush. I can maybe salvage this if I think fast.

Right now, she's keeping her distance and trying to figure out what's happening, so for the time being I just keep half an eye on her in case she tries to run. Rodin, for his part, ignores my question and spits on the ground.

"You're working with _this_ cunt now?" he demands, his eyes flaring with rage. "And where the fuck are Guy and Bressac?"

"They're dead," I tell him. "Blondie too. Fungus-men hit us in a swamp. As for this hellion here, we cut a deal. I take her to the road, she hands over the treasure they stole. Nice and simple."

"Ain't proper, making deals with this bitch," he mutters. "She killed a lotta good men."

I reply quick, before the Hellion can say something to piss him off. She might be tired, but with only three guys and one unarmed I don't wanna take the risk of getting in a fight until I know what's going on.

"What do you care _how_ we get the treasure," I say with a shrug, "long as we get it? Anyway, you told me to bring back the loot – not her head."

"Hrhn," he grunts, sounding unconvinced.

I turn to the matchman, who's leaned against a tree to catch his breath.

"What the hell happened?" I ask him, figuring he'll be more helpful. "Where's Clairwil and the others?"

The matchman meets my eyes, and before he can say it, I know. From the glazed look of shock in his eyes, I know exactly what happened, even before he opens his mouth. My heart drops to my guts, the world spins round me like I been hit in the head, and I barely hear the words I know he's about to say.

"We lost the gun."


	16. The Treasure

Chapter 16: The Treasure

"They came at us at dawn," says the matchman. "Three men killed in their sleep before we could fight back. And we had no cannonballs, so we couldn't use the gun on 'em. Those bastards couldn't've timed it better if they'd tried."

I look back at the Hellion. She's clearly enjoying our misfortune, but at least she has the good grace not to laugh. Just listening quietly.

"Four of them," he continues. "A dozen of us, and we got done in by four fucking guys. Asshole with an axe and hook, and some woman with a crossbow. And looks like they might've cut a deal with the cultists, cause they had a man with 'em turned into a beast when we fought. Terror to see."

He shudders, and I take a moment to leer at the Hellion.

"Still feel like working with them boys at the Hamlet, huh? When they got a freak with 'em ain't even natural?"

"He can't be all that bad," she deadpans, "considering who he was fighting."

"The last man," rasps Rodin. "It was Dismas, the fucking traitor. He was with them."

I whistle. Never personally knew Dismas, but he and Rodin used to run in the same crew a few years back. Dismas didn't have the stomach for it, and left. Coward like that, usually it's the last we hear of 'em, but lo and behold, back he comes a year and a half ago, working now for whoever it is that's running things up at the Hamlet. Rodin's wanted him dead ever since. Hell, most of us do – one of the other bosses, Vvulf, he's put the word out there's two thousand pieces of gold in it for the man brings back Dismas' head.

"Well, look on the bright side – Dismas' adventuring days are done," says the matchman grimly.

"Yeah?" I ask, impressed. "You killed him?"

"Clairwil shot him down," says Rodin. "Blew his fucking brains out from twenty yards." He spits on the ground. "Good riddance."

"You get the head?" I say, thinking of Vvulf's promised gold. But Rodin shakes his head.

"There was no time."

"Damn it," I say. "What a waste."

"Crossbow woman got killed too," adds the matchman. "Rodin got her. Snuck up behind her and put a blade in her neck."

"Good riddance to her too," Rodin scowls. "But that's still two for twelve. Cold comfort."

"Clairwil fought like a demon," the matchman continues, ignoring Rodin. "Shot every bullet he had, then put on his bayonet and mixed it up hand to hand. No fucking fear. And he was the one who saved us, too. When they'd taken the gun and it was just the three of us left, he didn't flinch – just ran right at them, screaming bloody murder. 'Run!' he called to us, right before he did it. 'Save yourselves! I'll hold them off.'"

"I take back all the bad shit I ever said about Clairwil," admits Rodin. "Man was a fucking hero. It's thanks to him the two of us got out alive."

I nod and do my best to look respectful. Personally, I think Clairwil's an idiot for getting himself killed: the three of them could've just booked it and they'd maybe have been okay. Credit where it's due, though: I'll admit I'm impressed he took out Dismas. Least there's one bright side to this fuckup. Still – right now, we gotta focus on the living.

"What do we do now?" asks the matchman.

"We finish what we started," says I, grimly.

The Hellion raises her glaive again, as if expecting treachery.

Let me level with you. Keeping my word to the Hellion's the last thing I want to do. I want that bitch fucking _dead_ , all the trouble she's caused. Last night, I spent half an hour thinking about what was gonna happen today, and this isn't how it was supposed to end. There was supposed to be a fight. Closure. Vengeance. What was _supposed_ to happen, see, was this.

I lead the Hellion to the road. A little before we get there, we run into the boys – Clairwil, and Rodin, and a bunch of the others. Yeah, I get they'd never have both been in one patrol, but fuck you – this is my fantasy.

I hear 'em calling my name, and Bressac's, and Guy's – looking for us, see. Hellion realizes it when it's already too late.

"You bastard," she says.

"Hey, Hellion," I taunt. "Have you ever been fucked before?"

Then the boys come screaming in.

The Hellion fights us tooth and nail, and she dies bravely. But still: she dies.

"That's for Florent!" I yell, pushing my knife into her neck. "And _this_ ," I say, pushing it into her stomach, "is for Jean! And Guy! And Bressac!" I go on, stabbing her once for each name. "And _this_ ," I tell her, as she falls to her knees drenched in her own red blood, "is to teach you some fuckin' _manners_."

Then I push the knife up under her jaw. Later, we hack off her head and spike it to her own glaive outside of camp, as a warning to anyone else might try and fuck with us. That night, we get drunk off moonshine and listen to the matchman sing us _The Highwayman_ – always a crowd-pleaser, that one – with Clairwil accompanying on the harmonica. Each of us thinking all the while on what we'll do with our share of the treasure.

"One kiss, me bonny sweetheart," I drunkenly sing along, leering at the Hellion's severed head. "I am after a prize tonight…"

Like I said, all that's what's _supposed_ to have happened.

It didn't happen. Never will happen, now. But fuck it. Like I said: I'd rather get paid than get even. Career as a bandit, you learn which fights to pick – any man who'd get in a big, dramatic fight instead of cashing out while he's ahead is an idiot. So I'll keep my word to the Hellion. I'll give her what she wants. And I'll get mine.

"Relax," I tell her. "I promised to take you to the road, yeah? Well, there it is. All I gotta do is tell you which way's north and you can make it to the Hamlet on your own. All I want's the treasure you promised me."

"Fuck your deal," interrupts Rodin. "And fuck this bitch. We oughta take the treasure off her carcass."

"I'd love to see you try," she grins. "Then again, maybe I'd better leave you alive. You've done a better job of killing brigands than I ever could have."

"You stupid cunt, I'll fuck you bloody!" he snarls. She just laughs.

"Come on and fuck me then," she goads, with a lewd wiggle of her hips. "If you dare."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

" _Shut the fuck up, both of you!_ " I roar. Surprisingly, they do.

"I've had enough of your shit," I go on. "Use your fuckin' head, Rodin. We can get the treasure right now, no fight, no fuss. Think enough men have died for it as it is. And as for you, Hellion: _you're_ gonna hand over the treasure real quiet-like, just like you swore to me on all your _precious_ honour. And we're all gonna leave, and go home happy. Yeah?"

They're both silent, glaring at eachother.

" _Yeah_?" I prompt again.

"Fine," spits the Hellion, looking disgusted. "Let's get this over with."

"Yeah," grumbles Rodin after another second. "Treasure's what matters."

"Good," I say. "Here, hold this," I add, passing my torch to the matchman. Once he's taken it, I theatrically pull out my compass and check it.

"North's that way," I point. "Now hand it over."

The Hellion smiles blandly. "You kept your promise, brigand. I'll keep mine."

She reaches one hand into her furs, groping for a pocket inside. After a second, she pulls out a small bundle wrapped in rags.

"One piece of treasure, as promised," she says, and tosses it to me.

I raise my hand and snatch it out of the air. It's wrapped in a piece of coarse blue cloth I realize came from Blondie's coat – Hellion probably tore off a strip to wrap the treasure in. I hastily unwrap it and dump the contents into my left hand.

After a moment, I hear someone come up beside me.

"Well?!" demands a voice – Rodin's. "What is it?"

Wordlessly, I show him. He takes it outta my hand, and stares.

It's a small, turquoise-coloured stone with a vague magical aura about it. A small design like a bird's wing etched into one side. I seen these things before – holdin' one makes a man move a bit faster. Useful enough magical effect, but ain't that strong. It's only worth a thousand pieces of gold, tops. Hell, that ruby in my guts is probably worth about as much.

"A fucking speed stone," says Rodin, his voice soft.

"No," says the matchman, his voice cracking. "No, no, no…"

"All these boys dead," Rodin continues, unhearing. "All this shit we went through. We done all this for a _fucking speed stone_."

I look up at the Hellion. She's got a smug, superior smile painted to her face, enjoying every minute of our agony. If I didn't hate the bitch so much, I'd admire her callousness. She really would have made a great bandit.

" _Fuck!_ " screams Rodin.

" _Fuck!_ " screams the matchman.

I look at the speed stone again, then back up at the Hellion. Despite everything, I can still see the funny side of all this. And I just start laughing.

"Fuck," I chuckle.


	17. The Promise

Chapter 17: The Promise

"You knew," I say.

"I knew," she nods. "I knew the second I found it in Justine's coat. Was it worth it, brigand?"

I look at Rodin. He's fallen to his knees, and is staring vacantly at the stone. There isn't even anger in his eyes any more – just utter disbelief, and denial, and refusal. The matchman's looking at the Hellion and me with a blank expression; doubt he's even really paying attention. Neither of them'll be any good in a fight. I'm all that's left. I have a crazy urge to charge her, to draw my blade and run in screaming.

But I ain't gonna do that. I ain't come this far, fought so long, just to die.

"So," I say, through clenched teeth. "You win, woman."

"That's right," she gloats. "I win."

"What's wrong?" she goes on, as I glower at her. "No more fancy words? No more fast talk? Looks like I finally shut you up."

"You're a real fucking bitch, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm a bitch, all right," she grins. "When it comes to scum like you. And I want you to remember this. I want you to remember, always, that I'm the one who beat you. I hope it keeps you up at night."

"Yeah," I snarl at her, "you beat me. Ain't gonna save you, in the end. You'll _never_ beat this fucking place. The Weald. The Warrens. The Cove. The Ruins and the Darkest fuckin' Dungeon itself. They'll beat  you in the end. Mark my words. The things you see, they'll break you. Eat you out hollow and leave you less'n' you was. Ain't no hope in this hell."

"There's always hope," she says dismissively, "as long as there's honour."

"You and your fucking honour," I scoff. "Well, your precious honour didn't save Justine, did it? When she died choking on her own puke in the swamp. Or the knight in shining armour, when the cannon turned him into paste. Or the magician, when I cut his throat. Or that asshole with the mutt, when Guy smashed the dog to pulp and Clairwil's boys shot its master down on the road. Your honour didn't save their lives any more than it did your husband's."

It's a low blow, and it hits hard: her eyes go wide with rage.

"That's right, you cunt," I leer. "Hope that keeps _you_ up at night. I'll tell you this, Hellion: stay out here, you'll be dead or crazy or both soon enough. Your honour won't save _you_ , either. And when that happens, Hellion; when you feel your death closing in, when you're haunted and driven mad by everything you seen and did – you fucking remember me, woman. You forget me not."

"Oh, I'll remember you, all right," she spits, making it sound equal parts threat and promise. "I'll remember your face. And I'll swear you one more oath, on my life and on my honour – I'll kill you, motherfucker, if we ever meet again."

I smile sourly at her.

"If."

She favours me with one last scowl as she backs away to the road, then turns and starts heading north. She'll reach the town before sunset.

When she's gone, I turn back to Rodin. He's still there, on his knees, looking at the stone.

"It's all my fault," he says, his voice hollow and hopeless. He look up at me, and I realize he's crying – eyes full of tears.

I stare at him aghast. All his anger, all his arrogance is gone. I can barely even recognize him.

"It's all my fault," he repeats. "Everyone's dead. Jean. Philippe. Clairwil. I led them here for _this_ ," he says, holding up the speed stone. "I brought us here, for this. They're all dead, and the cannon's fucked, and we're alone and we got nothing. It's all my fault..."

"It's…it's not your…" stammers the matchman hesitantly.

"I killed them!" Rodin yells, his voice cracking. "I killed them all!"

Then he just starts screaming, and doesn't stop. An awful, unending howl.

" _Noooooooooooooo!"_

I've never liked Rodin. He's a right bastard, and no mistake. But right now, I need him to get his shit together. So I grab him by the collar and backhand him in the face.

"Listen to me, Rodin," I say. "It wasn't you."

"It's all my fault," he blubbers. "It's my fault we lost the cannonballs, my fault…" He puts his head in his hands. "Noooo…" he sobs. "No…"

"It was _your man in town_ ," I hiss, shaking him like a rag doll. " _He_ fucked us. _He_ told us there was something good in that treasure. It's _him_ killed us all."

He looks dully at me.

"I…"

"You're a fucking asshole, Rodin, and I never liked you," I yell in his face. "So when I tell you did not do this, it's not because I'm trying to make you feel better. It's because it's not on you. Blame the man in town; blame Dismas, or the glaive-bitch, or anyone else. But _you_ , Rodin, did not fucking do this. You hear me?"

"He's right, though," says the matchman. "We got nothing."

"Not the way I see it," I say with a shrug, letting Rodin slide back to the ground. "Look, there's only three of us, right? Only three slices of the pie means even a speed stone'll give a decent payday. And look," I say, pulling out the bag of emeralds I took from the voice. "I found these in the swamp. Three gems, three of us. Do the math. We just gotta get to town, is all."

"But food…" begins Rodin.

"After they took the cannon, they'd have taken all the valuables from the campsite," I say. "I was them, I'd have dropped all my food and bandages and whatnot, and stuffed my bags with as much gold as I could. Town's less than a day's march, after all. I bet that's _exactly_ what they done. So all we have to do is make it back to the camp and pick up food and torches to last three men five days, and then we walk south along the Old Road."

"And when we hit town, what then?" asks the matchman.

"We find Rodin's 'man in town', and we cut that bastard's throat." I say grimly. "We get fucking even. Then we can figure out what next."

"We get even," Rodin repeats, looking like he's getting it together again.

"And we get out," I say, half to myself. "We get the fuck out of this place for good."


	18. The Dead

Chapter 18: The Dead

First, we hit the camp. The gun's a wreck – touch-hole spiked and trunneons busted in. And there's corpses lying everywhere. But the boys that hit us are gone, and they took their fallen friends with them, including Dismas. Damn it – I coulda used Vvulf's gold.

Just like I guessed, they took the valuables and left the supplies behind. There's food could feed twenty men for a week, never mind three for five days. Torches, bandages, medicine. All the loot from that damn carriage, all left behind for the three of us. We stuff our packs to bursting, and we scavenge knives and rifles from the fallen so each of us got two blades, a gun, and twenty bullets. Then we head south along the Old Road, following the compass.

It takes us five days to get there, but we get there. I shit out the ruby I swallowed on the first night; wipe it off best I can then pocket it for myself. Extra money for all the trouble I been through. We get in one or two fights – some cultists, and a couple oozes – which we win. After three days' march we're outta the Weald and into the highlands – then it's easy. We stagger into town at dusk the fifth day.

The first thing we do is sell the speed stone. We get a thousand pieces of gold for it – three hundred thirty three pieces each, with the extra piece going to Rodin. After all, despite everything, he's still the boss. Then we buy ourselves a proper meal – steak, and potatoes, and asparagus and ripe tomatoes in season. Then we go and take a bath, and get our clothes cleaned while we're at it. I spend an hour and a half in the bath, scrubbing off weeks' worth of filth and dirt and blood. I have to get 'em to change the bathwater twice, but I'm squeaky clean in the end. When it's done, I shave off my beard, too – I hadn't had a chance to since the day before we lost the cannonballs, and it was getting scruffy.

Once we're fed and clean, we go looking for Rodin's man in town. We find him that evening, and corner him in an alley – a fat, balding man with a drooping moustache. He recognizes Rodin immediately, and goes pale.

"It was a m-m-mistake!" he stammers, sweat beads showing up on his forehead. "I h-had bad infor, infor, information!"

"Yeah," says Rodin coldly, as we draw our knives. "Big fucking mistake."

We cut his tongue out first. Then his lips. Then his nipples. Then his cock. Then his nose. He's died of shock and blood loss before we get to the eyes, but we cut 'em out anyway and Rodin stomps on 'em before we throw the body into the trash.

"Less'n he deserved," says Rodin, as we're heading back to the inn.

We spend the rest of the week resting and buying new clothes and gear. Rodin and the matchman do a fair bit of drinking and gambling – selling their gemstones to cover it – but I make sure not to spend too much money. Hellion was right about one thing: we're real good at pissing our earnings away. I, at least, intend to start saving up. Don't wanna do this forever.

At the end of the week, the three of us meet at the inn and order a round of drinks. We've all got new kit on, although Rodin's changed his look completely. He ditched his old gear for shiny boots, a sable coat and, of course, a blue scarf. Always gotta be blue, with Rodin.

"Suits you," says the matchman.

We're quiet for a bit, until the barmaid brings us our mugs of porter. Then we drink to the dead, with the matchman first to break the silence.

"Clairwil," he says, raising his glass.

"Florent," I say, raising mine.

"Guy," contributes Rodin. Then the three of us take a big lug from our beers.

"Jean," Rodin says next.

"Philippe," says the matchman.

"Bressac," says I.

Another drink.

On and on we go, saying the names of dead friends, enemies, acquaintances, all the men from our crew who'll never leave the Weald. Seventeen names, all in all, seventeen men dead for the sake of a speed stone. We're all done our first mugs of beer and well into our second by the time we've said the last name.

As we sip to the last man, we listen to the music. A pretty girl, with black hair and almond eyes, has stood up in the corner, and is singing – what else? – _The Highwayman_. She's got a beautiful voice.

"He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead," she sings. "And a bunch of lace at his chin. A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin…"

"Now _there_ was a proper fuckin' brigand," slurs Rodin, with a wave at the woman. "Fancy suit. His own horse. Pretty girl waiting for him at home…"

"Yeah," I sneer, "and he gets himself killed at the end of the song. Ask me, the man was an idiot, going back there. I'd rather get a decent day's pay, than be a corpse with a dead mistress and a fancy suit covered in blood."

"Guess you got a point," Rodin admits.

"One kiss, me bonny sweetheart," sings the woman. "I am after a prize tonight…"

"Fuck's sake," I mumble, and take a swig of my porter.

We listen to her for the rest of the story. The Highwayman has a girl name of Bess who's sweet on him. Soldiers come looking for him and they hold her up, layin' a trap for the man for when he comes to see her that night. Bess manages to get hold of a musket, and blows her own brains out hoping the noise will warn her lover off. It does, but when he hears of it in the morning, he rides back to avenge her and gets himself shot down for it. Like I said – man's an idiot, even if it's a pretty song.

"So, what are you all gonna do now?" I ask, when she's through singing. "Now we've got our payday."

"I'm heading east," says the matchman, "to the sea. Try and work as a sailor."

"You ever done it before?" asks Rodin. The matchman shrugs.

"Been a sailor? No. But I been on a boat, once, and you better believe I know how to use a cannon," he says. "Always need of a gunner on a ship. And I got a decent strong back. Think the sea air might do me good, too, after all those months inhaling fungus. What about you, Rodin?"

"I'm going back," he says. "Next carriage north."

"You gotta be fucking _crazy_ , going back there," says I, shaking my head. "I ain't never going back to _that_ fucking place."

"I'm getting even," he says grimly. "They took everything from me."

"You got no boys," I point out. "You're gonna tough it out alone? You won't last a minute!"

"I got a plan," he replies. "Like I said: there's another carriage to the Hamlet going north from here at dawn. I'm gonna be on it. Blend in with the other adventurers on their way there. I figure I'll say I'm an ex-bandit looking to join up. Once I'm at the Hamlet, I'll spend a couple days scoping the place out, then I'll slip off into the Weald and link up with Vvulf. I bet he could use a man on the inside. Bet a man like that might be worth a fat share of loot."

I guess that's why he changed his outfit – trying to make himself look like a different man. Still, I see the flaw in his plan almost immediately.

"Yeah, but what if the Hellion recognizes you?" I point out. "She'll be there, and she ain't the forgiving sort."

Rodin just looks confused.

"The who?"

"The glaive-bitch," I clarify. "If she makes you, you're dead."

He just shrugs.

"So I keep my collar up and my head down. If I do get caught, I say I thought I'd join up same as Dismas done. My word against hers."

I grunt acknowledgement, but privately I think he's acting like a fool. Then again, if he had any sense at all, he wouldn't be going back to that fucking hellhole in the first place. Any case – he ain't my problem no more.

"What about you?" asks Rodin. "What's your plan?"

"Gonna go south," I say. "Think I might try and go legit for a while, same as him." I jab a thumb at the matchman. "Maybe find work in lumber, or a road gang, or something. Anything's gotta be better than here."

"Well," says Rodin, standing up. "Good luck to you both."

"You're leaving?" asks the matchman.

"Carriage leaves early," he says. "Gotta get my beauty sleep."

"Well, Rodin," I say, "as long as we're parting ways, I just wanna take the opportunity to tell you one thing."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"You're a fucking asshole," I deadpan, "and I hate your guts."

"Go fuck yourself," he snaps. "You're an asshole too."

"I'll drink to that," I grin. "One asshole to another."

After a moment, he bursts out laughing, and we clink our glasses together then drain 'em.

"Fare ye well," he says, then he's gone.

The matchman and I sit quietly together for a while. The woman's started singing again; song I don't recognize. Sounds nice though.

 _Near Banbridge town in the County Down one mornin' last July…_

"One thing's been bothering me," I say to the matchman. He raises an eyebrow.

"I don't think I ever got your name," I confess. "Don't seem right, we should part ways not knowing one another's names. All this crap we been through together and all."

He nods, and extends a hand.

"Dubourg," he says.

I reach over and grip his hand in my own.

"Séverin," says I.


	19. Epilogue

Epilogue

The day after they left, I sold the ruby and put the money I got for it in a bank for safekeeping. Like I said, gonna save up proper now. Then I headed down south.

I actually did try and go legit for a while. Spent a couple months working on a road gang. But it didn't take me long to realize – fuck this. Fuck breaking your back for barely enough to feed yourself. Career as a bandit might be risky, but at least it gives a decent payday. So I left, and spent a week cruising the seedy parts of nearby towns till I overheard some men talking shop. I came over and offered them my services. Once they heard I was a veteran of the Weald, well, they knew I was dead hard, and so they brought me right on in. Been working with 'em ever since.

I never saw Rodin or Dubourg again, and I probably never will. Hope they made it, though. I haven't seen the Hellion, neither, which I guess is for the best.

I'll be straight with you. It bothers me, sometimes. Hellion's curse took hold proper – this shit keeps me up at night. Not every night, but not few either: many's the time I've tossed and turned in bed, all eaten up by what happened in the Weald. All too often, I'm kept up by two simple words: "what if". Those two fucking words'll do your head in.

What if I'd let Rodin attack the Hellion instead of talking him down?

What if Dismas' boys hadn't hit the cannon that night?

What if Guy or Bressac or Blondie had survived in the swamp?

What if I hadn't opened my mouth and suggested we go after Blondie, the night after we hit the carriage?

What if Florent had turned around just a little bit faster when I warned him?

What if Jean hadn't charged the Hellion too early?

What if we hadn't run into the woods?

What if Blondie hadn't taken the speed stone from the carriage?

What if we'd missed both shots when we hit the carriage?

What if Guy hadn't lost those cannonballs in the swamp?

What if Rodin's man in town hadn't fucked up so badly in the first place?

Round and round they whirl, the questions, the mistakes, the faces of dead men, and the Hellion's leering, sneering grin rising like smoke above it all. I hate that woman, and it eats me alive that I'll never get even with her. She'll always have beaten and humiliated me, always have killed Florent, and I gotta live with that. The strong crush the weak; that's just the way of the world. And she was stronger than I was.

But when I start to think that way, what I comfort myself with is this. I got out of there. I got out of the Weald. The Hellion never did, and maybe she never will. She stayed, in that poisoned hell without hope or light. It'll break her in the end – I know it will. You can be as strong as you like out there – there's always an evil out there even stronger. And it'll crush _you_.

But me? Work as a bandit's much easier down here. Carriages aren't so heavily armoured, and it's rare we get in a proper scrap. Just walk on in and take money from people who hand it over with no fuss. The boys they gamble, and they drink, and they piss away their money – and I'll own up I do that too sometimes – but for the most part, I save up. Couple more years of this, I'll have enough to retire. Go down south, buy a winery, then start a family. I'll get my happy ending yet – unlike her. And so, the way I figure it is, I'm the real winner in the end.

Anyway.

When I was a kid, my mom used to read me stories. She couldn't read any more'n I can, but she had 'em all memorized. _The Tortoise and the Hare_ , for instance – that's a good one. Or _The Boy who Cried Wolf_. And the stories, they always had a moral – a little message you was supposed to take away from hearing it. Now I'll grant a lot of them morals was bullshit. Some were good, sure. _Tortoise and the Hare_ , say: man who wins is the one who can endure. But other stuff that was about doing right by your fellow man and shit – that's a fool's game. World's too hard a place for kindness.

But I'm getting sidetracked. My point is this: a story ain't proper 'less it's got a moral.

I've had a lot of time to think about the moral of my story. What have I done, to get this far? I've killed men, and robbed 'em. I've made promises, and broke 'em, and kept 'em. I knew when to fight and when to run and when to give up. I know how to plan for the future, and when to cut my losses and get out of a losing battle before it's too late.

So, the way I figure it, the moral of my story is this: it's men like me, men who are ruthless and cunning and know which way the wind blows – we're the ones who come out on top. It's men like me who always win in the end.

Every time.

 **THE END**


	20. Afterword

Afterword

I always wanted to write a story where the bad guy wins.

I'd like to take this moment to thank everyone who's read this far. It always improves my day to know that someone's read and enjoyed something I've written. If you enjoyed my story at all – even if you hated it – please leave a review, or even send me a personal message if you'd like to discuss anything in detail. Even if it's been five years, and it's 2021, send it along anyway – I always appreciate feedback.

In particular, I'd like to give special thanks to both of the people who sent me messages about how much they enjoyed the story, and encouraged me to finish it. You know who you are, and you kept me going when I was thinking of giving up. Thank you.

If you've gotten this far, then you also probably want to know a little bit of the behind-the-scenes information about the story. So, as long as you're here, I'll give you some of my thoughts.

LANGUAGE

Writing for an illiterate and uneducated character was an interesting challenge, since I had to avoid using any complicated words or literary allusions (since he can't read, he can't refer to books), and to deliberately introduce bad grammar. Admittedly, the bandits' accents ended up sounding somewhat more American than anything else (ironically enough, given that nearly all of them have French-sounding names), although I tried to develop my own sort of cant for the bandits' speech. Still, I think I pulled it off.

I use the word "fuck" (and its various cognates) 106 times in the story, not counting the afterword. For comparison, I use "bitch" 20 times, "damn" 16 times, "shit" 21 times, "bastard" 14 times, and "cunt" 6 times.

The chapter with the most swearing is "The Treasure", in which I use the word "fuck" 23 times, "bitch" 3 times, "bastard" twice, and "damn", "cunt", and "asshole" once.

I deliberately avoided using any religious language other than the words "hell" and "devil" – for example, phrases like "god damn" or "for Christ's sake" do not appear at any point in the story. Check if you like. I decided to avoid it because the main depicted religion of _Darkest Dungeon_ is "the Light", and saying "Light damn it" just sounds ridiculous. I think that's also part of why I had to use the word "fuck" so often – phrases like "for Christ's sake" had to become "for fuck's sake", for example.

I also mostly avoided homophobic slurs, until "The Pact" where Séverin refers to the Hellion as a dyke. Although I didn't write him as a homophobe (I actually wrote but had to cut a scene where he reflects to himself that he doesn't particularly care who his allies prefer to sleep with "as long as they got my back in a fight"), I figured that his contempt for the Hellion would lead him to use the most hateful insults he could think of.

I really enjoyed writing the hostility between Séverin and the Hellion. Most stories of this kind tend to take the route of sexual tension between the protagonist and antagonist, and I wanted to avoid that. So instead, I went with outright, utter, unadulterated loathing. Some people will, of course, still ship it. They always do. But in my view, the only scenario in which the two would have sex would involve rape. And I can't say I know which one would be on the receiving end.

The fact that I named a character "Guy" also restricted my language on a couple of occasions – since it would look weird to say "Guy and the other guys went into the Weald", I had to use phrases like "the boys" instead. Similarly, the fact that I don't reveal Séverin's name until the end of the story meant that I had to avoid sentence constructions which would require addressing him by name. And speaking of names…

NAMES

Most – although not all – of the names of the characters in the story are actually taken from the works of the Marquis de Sade, a man who specialized in writing stories even more bleak and cynical than this one. I only took names, however – characters in _A Bandit's Tale_ aren't intended to line up with their Sadean counterparts.

 _Justine,_ _Florent_ , _Dubourg,_ _Rodin, Bressac,_ and _Séverin_ are all named after characters in Sade's 1791 novel _Justine_ (although in a few cases with modifications – the novel's "Saint-Florent" simply became "Florent", and "Dom Severino" became Séverin).

 _Clairwil_ is named for a character in Sade's 1797 novel _Juliette_. After I posted the first five chapters of the story, I belatedly remembered that Sade's Clairwil is actually a woman, and that Clairwil is a feminine name. It's as if I called him "Jessica" or something. I considered referencing my mistake by including a scene where Rodin mocks Clairwil for having "a girl's name", but didn't find a way to fit it in.

 _Guy_ is named after Guy of Gisborne, Robin Hood's rival.

 _Philippe_ and _Jean_ 's names weren't intended as a reference to anything – I just needed French-sounding names for characters who'd end up dead by the end of the chapters in which they appear.

 _The Hellion, Dismas_ and _Vvulf_ , of course, come from _Darkest Dungeon_ itself.

STORYTELLING

Some readers may be angry that I killed Dismas in the story for seemingly no reason. If you've ever played the game, though, you're probably aware that bullshit, unfair deaths are more or less par for the course. Being unceremoniously gunned down by a brigand fusilier is _exactly_ how Dismas died in my game. So it goes.

I tried to include a number of repeated turns of phrase throughout the story. This, again, is quite deliberate: Séverin has a very formulaic mode of speaking, like most oral (as opposed to written) storytellers. I also included a number of callbacks throughout the story, some more subtle than others. One of the most obvious is Séverin's "Career as a bandit…" one-liner, which he uses several times throughout the story. Another is how he uses the phrase "desperate times" when persuading both Justine ("Blondie") and the Hellion to make a temporary alliance with him. There are others, of course, but I leave the finding of them as an exercise to the reader.

Another challenge I faced when writing _A Bandit's Tale_ was striking a balancing act between faithfully depicting its protagonist's amorality – and the sheer violence of the life he leads – and not including something so sickeningly violent or cruel it would put the reader off. As such, I tried to avoid showing any scenes of truly graphic torture or rape – the most violent part of the story is probably the eye-gouging at the end of "The Voice" (although the dismemberment of Rodin's "man in town" is probably a close second).

Likewise, I couldn't have Séverin kill the Hellion, since having the bad guy win _that_ hard would probably have put people off. As a matter of fact, the scene in "The Treasure" where he fantasizes about having led the Hellion into a trap is actually the original ending I had in mind for the story: it was only after writing "The Weald" that I realized that I couldn't have it end that way. So I simply included it as his fantasy of "what should have been" and went for the current ending – which is, in my opinion, better and more nuanced anyway.

I did try to give Séverin a bit more nuance, actually, as the story went on – he's a vicious, cunning brute, but he also has hopes and dreams he wants to achieve one day. Florent, too – I mentioned his dream of owning a winery as a way of reminding the reader that even evil, sadistic rapists have their shreds of humanity, and hopes they too want to achieve. Likewise, I introduced the Hellion's dead husband and her feelings about him as a way of showing that she has a personality and history beyond "killer with bad attitude". We mostly see her worst side in the story…but consider the kind of person she's talking to!

One last tidbit: the song the woman is singing at the end of "The Dead" is _Star of the County Down._

LAST WORDS

If you enjoyed reading _A Bandit's Tale_ and want to read other things I've written, you should consider following my writing blog! This website does not allow me to post a URL here, but if you Google "Falk's Labyrinth", it should be the first hit. I post original short stories there every week or two.

Thank you again for reading my story. I hope you've enjoyed it – even if it's bleak as all hell. Career as a bandit, you see some shit. And now you've _seen_ some shit, dear reader.

You've seen some fucking shit.

Oh, and last of all, I'd like to dedicate this story to S.A.H., for her kindness.


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